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to the right were still advancing in the wake of the barelegged boy musicians. None of their officers had survived, and they were led by a sergeant.
    As Casca watched, the German mortar crews concentrated their fire on this sector, and he saw first the drummers, then the piper, and then a sergeant and most of his following soldiers fall to the ground as the shells burst around them.
    The wire was now less than fifty yards away, but it was clear to Casca that they were not going to reach it. Suddenly the boy piper leaped to his feet, his pipes held above his head in one hand. Then he ran for the English lines. Good thinking, Casca decided quickly and took off after him. All along the line Tommies were getting to their feet and fleeing too.
    But the carnage continued. The machine guns poured lead after the retreating backs, and more men fell.
    Then Casca was at his own wire, searching desperately for an opening while all around him men fell to the machine guns. There were no openings. The wire had been re-entangled as soon as the charging troops were clear of the trenches. And all the wire cutters were out in no-man's-land with the dead subalterns.
    Inside the wire stood Regimental Sergeant Major Norman, wire cutters in hand, but he was not about to use them. He paced back and forth, his impeccable boots and cap peak glinting in the sunlight, abusing the troops and screaming at them to turn around and attack the Germans.
    Casca succeeded in getting the butt of his rifle beneath a roll of wire, and a number of other men ran to join him, all lifting together until there was just space enough for Casca to wriggle through on his belly.
    RSM Norman ran toward him. "You 'orrible, worthless coward! You rotten disgrace to the race! Get back there and fight like a decent English soljer! You no-good ..."
    His voice died in his throat as Casca calmly shot him from where he lay, and the tirade ceased. A moment later Casca had opened the wire and Tommies were pouring through it into the safety of the trench.
    Casca leaned against the wall of the trench and worked the action of his .303 to eject the spent cartridge then removed the magazine and squeezed a fresh bullet into place.
    "Hope I don't have to shoot too many more Englishmen," he muttered to himself. "I don't like this war already."
    He looked out across no-man's-land toward the German trenches. Shaking his head he muttered to himself, "I don't see how men can stand against these machine guns. We could be here for years."
    A Major Blandings appeared on the other side of the trench. Purple in the face, he stammered his outrage. "Disgraceful. Running like chickens. Not a man amongst the lot of you. Scarcely a single shot fired."
    Casca stared at him calmly, just managing to restrain the desire to shoot him too. The furious officer was still ranting when whistles sounded all up and down the line. The machine guns commenced firing and Casca turned to see a thick wave of Germans rushing for the trench.
    He fired deliberately, each bullet accounting for a man. Then he reloaded the five-shot magazine and fired again. Beside him everybody was doing the same, and the chatter of the machine gun was continuous. The boy piper and one of his drummers were moving back and forth on the earthworks. The piper was limping, and the drummer's sleeve was red with blood and he occasionally missed the beat, but they played as if in a peacetime parade in London. They marched to the opening in the wire and through it, heading for the oncoming waves of German troops.
    Casca didn't want to go, but he found himself swept up in the tide of men who clambered out of the trench and ran into no-man's-land behind the two boys.
    From somewhere he heard orders: "Fix bayonets! Charge!" And he found himself obeying, although he had a profound contempt for bayonet fighting while there were bullets available.
    The German riflemen could have cut them down, but the wild music from the kilted boys and the long line of