Q Sir: it's raining, the trenches are a quagmire of mud, the troops are sick, some bleeding, many trying manly not to cry, smoking cigarettes all day, exhausted. Rats scurry around their feet, even emboldened to bite ice ridden toes.

Will you blow the horn to rally us Sir? Are you still alive? Give us at least a small beacon of hope that you have not also perished.