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round the corner by myself. Unexpectedly, a small
man was there, standing with his back to me, stock-
still and watchful, a haversack of bombs slung over his
left shoulder. I saw that he was a Cameronian cor-
poral; we did not speak. I also carried a bag of
bombs; we went round the next bay. There my ad-
venturous ardour experienced a sobering shock. A
fair-haired Scotch private was lying at the side of the
trench in a pool of his own blood. His face was grey
and serene, and his eyes stared emptily at the sky. A
few yards further on the body of a German officer lay
crumpled up and still. The wounded Cameronian
made me feel angry, and I slung a couple of bombs at
our invisible enemies, receiving in reply an egg-bomb,
which exploded harmlessly behind me. After that I
went bombing busily along, while the corporal (more
artful and efficient than I was) dodged in and out of
the saps—a precaution which I should have forgotten.
Between us we created quite a demonstration of offen-
siveness, and in this manner arrived at our objective
without getting more than a few glimpses of retreating
field-grey figures. I had no idea where our objective
was, but the corporal informed me that we had
reached it, and he seemed to know his business. This,
curiously enough, was the first time either of us had
spoken since we met.

The whole affair had been so easy that I felt like
pushing forward until we bumped into something
more definite. But the corporal had a cooler head
and he advised discretion. I told him to remain where
he was and started to explore a narrow sap on the left
side of the trench. (Not that it matters whether it was
on the left side or the right, but it appears to be the
only detail I can remember; and when all is said and
done, the War was mainly a matter of holes and