Oh! I am hit. My back. Aitken straightens me up. He is laugh- 
ing. A lump of earth; that was all. There’s a bit of shrapnel on the 
parapet. But it was only the earth came down. Six feet deep, five feet 
long, three feet broad. Maybe, they can hit it? 
All clear. Out we climb. Back to the table under the bushes. Back 
to the typewriter. Next time I’ll wait until I hear the planes. Anyway, 
this sort of game can’t last. This is Brigade H.Q. It can’t be shelled 
and bombed, and straffed like this forever. This will pass. 
Aitken talks things. Poor old Goodfellow. A shell got him. Com- 
mander out. Second in Command killed. Joe Hinks carries on. But, 
Mosquito Crest is holding up the advance. We are on the defensive 
almost. Not enough men. Too worn out. A comrade comes up. He 
got no cigarettes. His voice is angry. I try to soothe him. Someone 
says something from the other side of the road. Aitken roars back. 
More adjectives than nouns in his reply. He is in the middle of a lurid 
sentence. 
Bang! The ground heaves up. I am lying on the sand. Outside 
the shelter of the bushes. Bang! Bang! Bang! Those bombs are 
right beside us. Not on us. No cries. The ford — they’re bombing 
the ford. Fifty yards away. Yesterday I was lying happy in the water 
when they bombed this spot. Today I’m here, and they’re bombing 
there. 
A shout. What? Christ, the Brigade Commander is hit. Aitken 
and I bump into one another as we dash for the ford. Bombing has 
stopped. The roar of an engine – descending. Straffing now! Where’ll 
we put him until it’s over? Our funk-hole too small. Head down, I 
turn into the road. Who’s this? Blood streaming down his face. A 
dozen gashes in his head. Bee. Wounded again. Always bloody well 
wounded. And surviving. 
“Bee, where’ll we put the Commander?” Bee looks at me, dazed. 
I leave him, run on. I’m a bloody idiot. Asking‘ a wounded man to 
help! The whine of bullets through the air. Down I flop. Command- 
ers quit my memory. Fear. Will they get me? A shadow passes over 
me, and away. The noise of planes retreats. The straffing is over. 
Brigade Commander Copic caught at the ford and wounded by bomb- 
splinters is in an ambulance by the time I get there. “I’ll be back in a 
few days” he calls out as they shut the door. 
All quiet again at the ford. Hercules and I strip and lie down in the 
cool waters. 

154