"This way, sir," and the Lieutenant led him past groups of men and
officers. It was an appalling scene of desolation. The approach of night
had brought a slight drizzling rain, and the ground, pitted with shell
holes, was slimy with wet, greasy mud. Nearly all the trees in the
vicinity were blasted as if by lightning, and along the right hand side
of the road was a line of A.S.S. carts and limbers blown to pieces. One
horse, completely disemboweled, lay on his back, the inside arch of his
ribs plainly showing. His leader was a mass of entrails lying about, and
on the other side lay four or five more, one with a foreleg blown clear
off at the shoulder, one minus a head. A half-dozen motor cycles and over
a dozen push bikes lay in the mud with some unrecognizable shapes that
had been riding them. Between the advance trenches, in No Man's Land, the
ground was thickly strewn with corpses of Scotties killed in the charge.

"The Huns had us cold as to range," volunteered the Lieutenant, loss
of blood and reaction from excitement loosening his tongue. "They
outed five guns complete with detachments by direct hits. Here we are,
sir," and he paused near a demolished gun emplacement. The ground
about was a shambles.

Major Seymour stepped up to one of the figures lying upon the ground,
a mud-incrusted coat thrown over his legs. Several privates who had
been rendering what assistance they could, moved aside on the
approach of their superior officers. Hargraves opened his eyes as
Seymour knelt by him.

"My number's up," he whispered, and the game smile which twisted his
white lips was pitiful.