There he lay for eight hours, when the moaning of a wounded pal, three or four feet away, roused him and he pulled himself over to him; his pal’s leg had been shattered from the knee down and Billy, in spite of his own condition, managed to drag him for some distance toward the dressing station, hopping on his left foot as he went and then resting a bit.  Finally the pain became too great and he could go no further; every nerve and fiber of his aching body was at the breaking point of utter exhaustion, and the pain of the gangrene in his wound, inspired by the mud and dirt, gave him his finishing touch and he dropped.  Bill’s pal then took up the struggle; he tottered to his sound foot and dragged him to the dressing station, where he dropped beside him.

The tremendous rush of wounded men waiting for treatment made it necessary for them to take their turn, and it was three-quarters of an hour before they could either of them get attention; the German wounded were treated in turn along with our own men, no favors being shown.  This is in marked contradistinction to the untold and unspeakable brutality exercised upon our wounded prisoners in the German lines.

In due time they were carried to the rear by German prisoners, and then to England through the medium of the base hospitals and casualty clearing stations.

It is with pardonable pride I can say that they were not long in the hospital before they got word they were to receive a medal for their magnificent work.

Billy’s splendid physical condition rapidly brought him through, although it was five months before he was really himself again, and he has since then gone back to the lines, where he was again wounded and in the hospital, and has again gone back and is still doing his bit.

On the following morning, I returned to the battery.

CHAPTER XIV

The dead shell[1]

A late September mist, more hazy than foggy in its character, enveloped the line following a heavy deluge of nearly two days that had poured almost a foot of water in our trenches, and in some spots where holes had formed in the trench-bed the water came gurgling over the knee.  On the whole, however, conditions were very much less worse than wading in the water up to one’s waist, which was our common lot in the earlier days of the war.  As one of our wags had it, “Mud under me, water around me and hell above me.”

[Footnote 1:  A dead shell is one that explodes at a predetermined time after it strikes—­from one minute to several hours.]

For nearly a month Fritz had been inordinately busy with his “dead” shells; we had no rest from his activities.  If there was an interval of time when we were not being served with the “dead” messages, the hiatus was filled with whiz-bangs and gas.  Whichever his fancy dictated, for us it was the Devil’s choice.