We went out gladly and left behind the
dug-out in which we cooked our food but never slept, the old crazy
sandbag construction, weather-worn and shrapnel-scarred, that stooped
forward like a crone on crutches on the wooden posts that supported
it.
"How many casualties have we had?" I asked Stoner as we passed out of
the village and halted for a moment on the verge of a wood, (p. 210)
waiting until the men formed up at rear.
"I don't know," he answered gloomily. "See the crosses there," he said
pointing to the soldiers' cemetery near the trees. "Seven of the boys
have their graves in that spot; then the wounded and those who went
dotty. Did you see X. of ---- Company coming out?"
"No," I said.
"I saw him last night when I went out to the Quartermaster's stores
for rations," Stoner told me. "They were carrying him out on their
shoulders, and he sat there very quiet like looking at the moon.
"Over there in the corner all by themselves they are," Stoner went on,
alluding to the graves towards which my eyes were directed. "You can
see the crosses, white wood----"
"The same as other crosses?"
"Just the same," said my mate. "Printed in black. Number something or
another, Rifleman So and So, London Irish Rifles, killed in action on
a certain date. That's all."
"Why do you say 'Chummy' when talking to a wounded man, Stoner?" I
asked. "Speaking to a healthy pal you just say 'mate.'"
"Is that so?" (p.
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