We were peering through our glasses from our
point of vantage when, far away in the thickest of the battle-smoke,
we saw a white flag wagging, sending back messages. The flag-wagging
was repeated desperately; it was evident that no one had replied, and
probable that no one had picked up the messages. A signaller who was
with us, read the language for us. A company of infantry had advanced
too far; they were most of them wounded, very many of them dead, and
they were in danger of being surrounded. They asked for our artillery
to place a curtain of fire in front of them, and for reinforcements to
be sent up.
We at once 'phoned the orders through to our artillery and notified
the infantry headquarters of the division that was holding that
front. But it was necessary to let those chaps know that we were aware
of their predicament. They'd hang on if they knew that; otherwise----.
Without orders our signaller was getting his flags ready. If he hopped
out of the trench onto the parapet, he didn't stand a fifty-fifty
chance. The Hun was familiar with our observation station and strafed
it with persistent regularity.
The signaller turned to the senior officer present, "What will I send
them, sir?"
"Tell them their messages have been received and that help is coming."
Out the chap scrambled, a flag in either hand--he was nothing but a
boy. He ran crouching like a rabbit to a hump of mud where his figure
would show up against the sky.
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