Gerald nodded; he could not speak. His captain looked at him and so did the sapper officer who came behind; and, being men of understanding, for a space there was silence.
“Worst bit of the whole line,” said the sapper. “We must hold it where we can to-day and get it patched up to-night.”
“How many men have you got left, Gerald, in your platoon?”
“I don’t know,” he answered, and his voice sounded strange. He looked to see if the others noticed it, but they made no sign. As a matter of fact, his voice was quavering like an old man’s—but, as I have said, they were men of understanding. “I’ll go and see.”
And so the three crawled on, and in various odd corners they pulled out white-faced men. One in a corner was mad. He was playing a game by himself with another man’s boot—a boot that contained its original owner’s foot. One man was sobbing quietly, but most of them were just staring dazedly in front of them. ••••• Suddenly Gerald clutched his captain’s arm.
