thousand to one against them, but he made no remark. As MacTaggart turned back at the corner of the traverse he felt strangely comforted by the sight of MacRae sitting solidly there with his eyes fixed on the trench.
Along the trench the two ran past dug-outs from which came sounds of moanings, and suddenly came on the three men lying in a blood-stained bay with their rifles and bombs littering the ground. The first looked up at them as they bent over him. It was the boy who had wrestled with his chum in the morning. His legs were off below the thigh, and he looked strangely shrunken. “I’m done for, Sergeant,” he said steadily, “you take the others.”
The next man lay screaming, ‘‘Oh, my legs, my legs.” They lifted him and dragged him along the trench, cursing. The Senior Subaltern was filled with unreasonable anger against the man for being so heavy and making such a filthy row.
“Oh, come on, you silly devil,” he said, with a pull which made the man scream; then “Oh, I am sorry, Thompson. No matter. You’ll be home soon.”
As they dragged him to the point of exit they saw MacRae still sitting impassive, looking down the trench to the left. The Sergeant climbed up, and between them they lifted the groaning man up the twelve-foot parapet.
