toppled backward, tearing at his breast.     

       Then we learnt once and for all whether Heming had guts. His face leapt together—these are the only words in which to describe his sudden change of expression. The entire man became knit in one purpose, to out-daunt the challenge of the danger His eyes were merry when he turned to me. “There are just enough of you to carry the Major out. He may live if you get him to a dressing-station. Work your way back down this trench; you’ll strike our front-line somewhere in that direction.”     

       “But what about you, sir?” I asked.     

       He was examining his revolver to see whether it was clean and ready.       “I’m going forward,” he answered. “If I can get in a few pot-shots, I’ll divert their attention and help you to make good your getaway.”     

       It was the damnedest bit of folly—one man with a revolver, going forward to stir up an unknown number of the enemy He was an officer, so we had to obey him; besides, there were only just enough of us to carry out the Major. Just as we had started, Heming came crawling back to me on his hands and knees.     

       “Corporal,” he said hurriedly, “if anything should happen to me, just drop a line to this address and let her know that I wasn’t yellow. I don’t suppose she’ll care, so you don’t need to be sentimental. Just state the fact, and say that I did everything that she might feel proud of—of our friendship.”     

       The address which he slipped into my hand bore the name of a married woman. I recognized her name, for I had seen her portrait often in the London Illustrateds. I wondered whether it was true what he had said, that she would not care.     

       There wasn’t much time for wondering; the mist was lifting. It was easy to see one’s direction now and easy to be seen by the enemy. The trench was shallow; it was exhausting work, crouching to take advantage of every bit of cover and dragging at the body of the wounded man. We hadn’t been gone ten minutes before a barrage came down on the spot where we had been discovered, setting up a wall of fire between ourselves and Heming. In the brief silences between the falling of the shells, I could hear the ping of rifle-bullets. They were passing far over to our left; I could picture how Heming was exposing himself to draw the fire away 

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