“Good-bye, old things,” said MacTaggart at the top, “no doubt I shall see you again some time to-night.”
“Good-bye, Tagg,” floated up a voice from below. “Will you have lilies or roses?”
“No flowers by request,” was the retort, and the O.C. raid proceeded to Headquarters where his party was already assembled, and their grey-haired Brigadier, himself a Highlander and veteran of three wars, was waiting to speak to them before they went out. His speech was a short and simple one characteristic of the man. “You’re going to help make the name of the regiment, and the fame of the North, to-night, men. I’ve heard that in Flanders yesterday the Bosche came up against Scotsmen again, and got the worst of it. Now, you’ll show ‘em to-day that Scotsmen can give them the worst of it here, too. Scotland for ever. Lead on, Mr MacTaggart, and good luck,” and the raiding party filed up the long communication trench to the front line.
The spring evening was quiet and still, with hardly a cloud to ruffle the sky, and birds here and there were singing as the party tramped on. Overhead came the drone of a British aeroplane, but nowhere was there a sound of shelling. It was the quietest evening any of them had seen on that battered front; only they knew that soon its tranquillity would be torn
