The Englishman's undying love for certain civilized things is thus
portrayed by R. Richard Schayer in _Life_.
In a gorse bush a hundred yards beyond his trench lay Lieutenant
Fitzhugh Throckmorton of the King's Own Rifles, asleep at his post. For
hours he had lain there, searching the position of the enemy through his
binoculars. Overcome by fatigue, he had nodded, drowsed, and finally
slumbered.
The sun hung low in the western mists when Throckmorton awoke. He
glanced at his wristwatch and sprang to his feet with an oath.
Regardless of peril, he turned and sprinted toward his trench. His was
not a nature to count the risk when duty, however delayed, called. Every
German sniper within range sent shot upon shot after the flying figure.
The enemy's trenches took up the hunt and fairly blazed with rifle and
machine gun fire. The bullets hummed in Throckmorton's ears like a swarm
of savage hornets. They snarled and bit at the turf about his feet like
a pack of wolves.
With a last desperate burst of speed, his clothing tattered with bullet
holes, the Lieutenant gained his trench and leaped down to its cover.
His face, wearing an expression of mingled hope and despair, he rushed
to the bomb-proof dug-out where sat his Colonel and brother officers.
They looked up at him with cold eyes. One glance and Throckmorton's
heart failed him. He was too late.
They had finished tea.