“Look out,” he kept saying to every man who came and went up and down or across the trench. “That’s the Gunners’ wire; don’t you git breakin’ it, or they can’t call up to git on with the shellin’.”
About two or three hours after dawn the German bombardment appeared to be slackening off, but again within less than half an hour it was renewed with a more intense violence than ever. The Stonewalls’ trench was becoming hopelessly destroyed, and the casualties in the battalion were mounting at serious speed.
“Hotter than ever, isn’t it?” said Larry, and the other two assented.
“We’re lucky to ’ave dodged it so far,” said Billy Simson; “but by the number o’ casualties we’ve seen carted out, the battalion is coppin’ it pretty stiff. If we stop ’ere much longer, there won’t be many of us left to shove into the front line, when we’re needed.”
“D’ye notice,” said Kentucky, “that the rifle firing and bombing up in front seems to have eased off a bit, and the guns are doing most of the work?”
“Worse luck,” said Larry, “I’d sooner have the bullets than the shells any day.”
“Ar’n’t you the Stonewalls?” suddenly demanded a voice from above them, and the three looked up to see a couple of men standing on the rearward edge of the trench.
“Yes, that’s right,” they answered in the same breath, and one of the men turned and waved his hand to the rear.
“Somebody is lookin’ for you,” he remarked, jumping and sliding down into the trench. “C Company o’ the Stonewalls, ’e wanted.”
“That’s us,” said Larry, “but if he wants an officer he must go higher up.”
Another figure appeared on the bank above, and jumped hastily down into the trench.
“Stonewalls,” he said. “Where’s ‘C’--why ’ere yer are, chums----”
“Pug?” said Larry and Kentucky incredulously. “We thought that--why, weren’t you hit?” “Thought you was ’alf-way to Blighty by now,” said Billy Simson.
“You were hit, after all,” said Larry, noticing the bloodstains and the slit sleeve on Pug’s jacket.
“’It?” said Billy Simson, also staring hard. “Surely they didn’t send yer back ’ere after bein’ casualtied?”
“Give a bloke ’alf a chance to git ’is wind,” said Pug, “an’ I’ll spin yer the cuffer. But I’m jist about puffed out runnin’ acrost that blinkin’ field, and dodgin’ Jack Johnsons. Thought I was niver goin’ to find yer agin; bin searchin’ ’alf over France since last night, tryin’ to ’ook up with yer. Where’ve you bin to, any’ow?”