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bombing parties. In the meantime, nothing tha-
happened to me could relieve Battalion H.Q,. of its
burdens. The Adjutant would go on till he dropped,
for he had an inexhaustible sense of duty. I never sa\\
him again; he was killed in the autumn up at Ypres,
... I would like to be able to remember that I smiled
grimly and departed reticently. But the "bombing
show" had increased my self-importance, and my
exodus from the Front Line was a garrulous one. A
German bullet had passed through me leaving a neat
hole near my right shoulder-blade and this patriotic
perforation had made a different man of me. I now
looked at the War, which 4iad been a monstrous
tyrant, with liberated eyes. For the time being I had
regained my right to call myself a private individual.

The first stage of my return journey took me to the
Advanced Dressing Station at Henin. My servant
went with me, carrying my haversack. He was a
quiet clumsy middle-aged man who always did his
best and never complained. While we picked our way
along the broken ground of Henin Hill I continued
talkative, halting now and again to recover breath
and take a last stare at the blighted slope where yester-
day I had stumbled to and fro with my working party.

The sky was now overcast and the landscape grey
and derelict. The activities of the attack had sub-
sided, and we seemed to be walking in a waste land
where dead men had been left out in the rain after be-
ing killed for no apparent purpose. Here and there,
figures could be seen moving toward the Dressing
Station, some of them carrying stretchers.

It was the mid-day stagnation which usually fol-
lowed an early morning attack. The Dressing Station
was a small underground place crowded with groan-
ing wounded. Two doctors were doing what they