"Saw 'em getting over the top, sir. Then they got into the smoke and we lost 'em. Like a witches' cauldron."
"We shan't hear anything for two hours." The General thoughtfully knocked the ashes out of his pipe. They were his men who had gone into that witches' cauldron; with them daily he lived and daily died. Their Dream's End was his too. But—a sense of proportion, always. "We might as well have lunch," he remarked casually.
Gradually the bombardment died away, though from time to time the guns burst into sullen mutterings, as though hungry at being baulked of their food.
The same old aeroplanes—or different ones—buzzed busily about; the same old stoical balloons looked more rash-like than ever.
And then suddenly outside the brigade office there was a stir.
A runner had hove in sight, and the signal officer emerged to get his tidings.
"Good," he muttered to himself; "the old man will be pleased." He went into the General's dug-out.
"Message just through, sir, from C.O. South Loamshires: 'Objectives obtained.A. A. A. Situation on right somewhere obscure. A. A. A. Estimated casualties 200 all ranks. A. A. A. Will be consolidated to-night. A. A. A.'"
The "old man" was pleased.
And so, on the afternoon of the 21st, we gained
