Malcolm took the folded paper and thrust it in his pocket, unfixed his bayonet and returned it to the scabbard, slung his rifle, and started off at a run in the direction of the invisible Messines village. According to the ethics of the Great War a dispatch-bearer must walk while under shell-fire, but when exposed to rifle-fire he may run without loss of dignity or prestige. And, since the matter was urgent, Malcolm felt glad that he was not to traverse a shell-watered zone.
Wounded men, both friend and foe, called imploringly as he passed. Beyond a few cheering words to his helpless comrades he could do nothing to aid them. His errand was too pressing. There were dead, too, in ghastly heaps, some with their fingers still clutching the throats of their opponents, others in a naturally rec
