He ran to the adjoining dugout, where his corporal and stretcher bearers were sleeping, roused them and sent them up the trench. There was the sound of subdued voices and of quick marching feet along the communication trench a few yards away. They stood together listening for a few minutes.
“I'm going,” said Barry, hurrying off in the direction of the sound. “Come on.”
“Captain Dunbar,” called the M. O. sharply, “my place is here, and I think this is where you will be most useful as well. They will bring the wounded to us right here.”
In a few minutes all was still again, except for the machine guns, which still kept up their incessant tattoo.
The M. O. was correct in his forecast. In a few minutes down the communication trench came a wounded man walking, jubilant in spite of his wounds.
“Fritzie tried to put one over on us,” he exclaimed, while the doctor was dabbing with iodine and tying up his wounded arm, “but I think he's got another guess coming. You ought to have seen our officer,” he added. “The first one in the bunch to be 'at 'em.' With a bayonet, too, mind you. Grabbed one from a private as he ran past, and bombs bursting like hell all around. Beg pardon, sir,” he added, turning to Barry. “He's some kid, poor chap. He's got his, I guess.”
“They are carrying the stretcher cases right down to the dressing station, I hear,” said the man.
“I'm going, doc,” said Barry, and was off at a run.
At the casualty clearing station there was no excitement, the doctors and orderlies “carrying on” as usual, receiving the wounded, dressing their wounds, sending them down with the smoothness and despatch characteristic of their department.
“Cameron?” said the doctor in answer to Barry's question. “Why certainly, I'll show you.” And he led him to Cameron's cot.
“Well, old chap,” said the doctor cheerily, “we're going to send you down in a minute or two. Now don't talk.”
“Dear old boy,” said Barry, dropping on his knees beside him. “I'm awfully sorry.”
“It's all right,” whispered Cameron. “They--never--knew.--You'll write dad--and tell him--I kept--” The voice trailed off into silence. The morphia was doing its merciful work.
“Yes,” whispered Cameron with a smile, faint but exultant.