Then he awoke to the horror of the thing.

His right side was dead!

* * * * *

The shape was really alive.  It resolved itself into a man crawling in the darkness to his rescue.

“You need not bother about me, I’m done for.  Get back into the trench.”

He had a feeling that though he meant his lips to frame these words, he was in reality saying something quite different.  It was an exhausting effort to speak.

The form asked him questions in a fierce whisper.  He had not the strength to understand or answer.

Very slowly and cautiously he was dragged over the few yards of ground that separated him from the first hole.

It was awful.  His brain conceived the thought:  “For God’s sake let me die in peace.”  But his lips were all twisted, and refused to move at the bidding of his brain.  He could only groan.

With wonderful gentleness the man placed his Officer’s broken head over the hole, and with the help of another man lowered him into it.

His next thought was:  “Well, they can only hit my feet, now!” There had not been room in the hole for all of him, so his feet had been left protruding out of it.  The thought fanned some smouldering ember of humour in him.  A moment later he discovered with a thrill—­

“I’m going to live, I’m going to live.  I will live!”

The discovery, and the resolution which followed, by no means excited him.  He arrived quite quietly at the conclusion.  And set his mind to await the development of the next event.

The man who had dragged him in now tied the “first field dressing” over his head, and fastened the strings beneath his chin.  Interminable ages passed slowly by, and yet the Doctor did not come.  He regarded the arrival of the Doctor, like the coming of the Last Day, as the end of all difficulties, and the solution of many mysteries.

Needless to say he was disappointed.  The Doctor could naturally do little or nothing for him.  With the aid of a match or two he “had a look,” replaced the dressing by some bandages, and moved him about a little to ease his position.  To carry him away that night, said the Doctor, was absolutely impossible.  And with that he went away.

The Senior Subaltern, who had come up with him, stayed a little longer, and earned his eternal gratitude.  He made further efforts to straighten him out, assured him that the effects of the shock would wear off by morning, and that he would once more be able to move.  He collected a few extra blankets and coats and spread them over him, for he was growing terribly cold.  Then with cheery words on his lips he left him.

Left alone in the silence of the night, the Subaltern felt the horror of the situation take hold of him.  He was alone with his pain and his paralysis.  There was no hope of alleviation until morning.  What time was it then? he asked himself.  Seven, at the latest.  That meant eight long hours of agony, before anything happened!  That is what the wounded love and long for—­something to happen—­something to distract the attention from the slow, insistent pain—­something to liven drooping spirits, and raise falling hopes.