"He never lost consciousness. When we tried to
raise him, he got up to his feet and ran away, yelling. The pain must
have been awful."
"Has the trench been captured?"
"Of course it has," said the stretcher-bearer, an ironical smile
hovering around his eyes. "It has been a grand victory. Trench taken
by Territorials, you'll see in the papers. And there'll be pictures
too, of the gallant charge. Heavens! they should see between the (p. 205)
trenches where the men are blown to little pieces."
The cigarette which he held between his blood-stained fingers dropped
to the ground; he did not seem to notice it fall.
We carried the wounded man out to the road and took our way down
towards Givenchy. The route was very quiet; now and then a rifle
bullet flew by; but apart from that there was absolute peace. We
turned in on the Brick Pathway and had got half way down when a shell
burst fifty yards behind us. There was a moment's pause, a shower of
splinters flew round and above us, the stretcher sank towards the
ground and almost touched. Then as if all of us had become suddenly
ashamed of some intended action, we straightened our backs and walked
on. We placed the stretcher on a table in the dressing-room and turned
back. Two days later the armless man died in hospital.
The wounded were still coming out; we met another party comprised of
our own men. The wounded soldier who lay on the stretcher had both
legs broken and held in place with a rifle splint; he also had a
bayonet tourniquet round the thick of his arm.
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