"Devilish hot stuff, shrapnel," commented a brother officer as Major
Seymour stopped at his side.

The Major nodded absently, and without further reply advanced a few paces
to meet an ammunition corporal who was obviously seeking him. "Well?" he
demanded, as the non-commissioned officer saluted.

"Only twenty rounds left, Major." The Corporal lowered his voice.
"Captain Hargraves sent word to rush reinforcements here as soon as it is
dark, sir."

Major Seymour glanced with unconcealed impatience at his wrist watch.
God! Would night never come!

"Can't we get our wounded to the base hospital, Major?" asked a
younger officer. He had only joined the unit thirty-six hours before
and while he had faced the baptism of fire gallantly, the ghastly
carnage about him shook his nerve. He was not fed up with horrors as
were his brother officers.

"The wounded would stand small chance of reaching safety if the German
gunners sighted them. They must wait for darkness," replied Seymour.
"Here, take a pull at my flask. Got potted yourself, didn't you?"
noticing a thin stream of blood trickling down his companion's sleeve.

"Only a flesh wound--of no moment," protested the young man, flushing at
the thought that his commanding officer might have misunderstood his
question. "I'm afraid Captain Hargraves is in a bad way."

"Hargraves!" The Major spun on his heel. "Where is he?"