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 with the rushing of a thousand shells through the air, and all the imminent hell into which they must charge to meet what secret foes awaited them hidden in the deep and silent trench.

“Good luck, sir.” “Good luck, boys!” N.C.O.’s and men of their battalion stood at attention as they passed up, and a lump came into the Senior Subaltern’s throat. Suppose he had lost his nerve. Suppose that when the time came he should not have the courage to give the signal to advance. Savagely he fought his doubts, reminding himself of past risks lightly taken, heartening himself with a phrase he had heard the men use, “they cannae kill our officer,” and partially succeeded. But the abysmal doubt persisted somewhere in his brain, as it had done always before action, and probably always would.

At the support trench he parted from Charles MacRae, who was to advance from another crater. ‘‘See you in half an hour, Charlie,” he said, and went on to the front line with his half of the party. A sister battalion of the regiment was garrisoning the front line, and as he went up he passed officers he knew. He hurried his party a bit, feeling unreasonably that they would be too late into the crater, and as they went up the narrow trench leading to it there was a metallic roar