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was just a dying animal, on the verge of oblivion.

And then a queer thing happened. My sense of
humour stirred in me, and—emerging from that
limbo of desolate defeat—I thought "I suppose I
ought to say something special—last words of dying
soldier3'. . . . And do you know that I take great
pride in that thought because I consider that it
showed a certain invincibility of mind; for I really
did believe that I was booked for the Roll of Honour.
I need hardly say that I wasn't; after a bit the cor-
poral investigated my head and became optimistic,
and I plucked up courage and dared to wonder
whether, perhaps, I was in such a bad way after all.
And the end of it was that I felt very much better
and got myself back to No. 14 Post without any
assistance from Davies, who carried my tin hat for

Velmore's face was a study in mingled concern and
relief, but the face of Sergeant Wickham was catas-

For Wickham was there, and it was he who had
shot me.

The fact was that his offensive spirit had led him
astray. He had heard the banging of our bombs and
had been so much on his toes that he'd forgotten to go
and find out whether we had returned. Over-eager to
accomplish something spectacular, he had waited and
watched; and when he spotted someone approach-
ing our trench had decided that the Germans were
about to raid us. I was told afterwards that when he'd
fired at me he rushed out shouting, "Surrender—you

-----s!" Which only shows what a gallant man he was

—though everyone knew that already. It also showed
that although he'd heard me lecturing to the com-
pany N.C.O.s on my "Four C's—i,e. Confidence,