More pain; again the jolting agony of movement; and he was back round the bend and swaying dizzily, dreamily, on a stretcher.

At last he was back at the regimental aid post. He lay on the stretcher, trapped, helpless, trying to follow the two stretcher-bearers with his one good eye, waiting in terror for them to speak.

They were behind him now. He could not see them, but he could hear their firm, friendly voices distinctly. They were talking and joking about some private affair; to the sergeant, lying helpless on the stretcher, it was disconcerting, almost infuriating, that they should talk as if he were not there.

A face appeared over his again. He recognised the medical officer.

The M. O. smiled. ‘They’ve made a bit of a mess of your face, Sergeant,’ he said, ‘but they haven’t hurt you too badly. You’ll be in a plane to Blighty in twenty-four hours.’

Bender tried to speak; he only succeeded in making a croaking noise.

He heard one of the stretcher-bearers speaking, into his right ear, ‘Tha’rt a lucky fellow, Sergeant. Ah wish ah were in thy place.’

The other bearer spoke, ‘Want a fag, Sergeant?’ Bender nodded. ‘Can I give him one, sir?’

‘Of course,’ the doctor said ‘till he’s on the jeep. So Major Maddison is not among us any more?’

Bender stiffened on the stretcher.

‘No, sir.’ It was one of the stretcher-bearers again. ‘Shell splinter got him.’

Bender relaxed. He felt himself borne aloft, floating in space again as they lifted the stretcher and moved towards the waiting jeep ambulance.

‘That Maddison,’ he heard one of the stretcher-bearers say, ‘he was always after a decoration.’

‘Aye,’ the other bearer replied, ‘he got decorated all right. Right in the kisser.’

Gently they eased the laden stretcher on to the jeep.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Roll on, the peace

THE LOFTY BARN smelt of rats and rotten straw. The uncertain light of a hurricane lamp, on a wooden table in one corner, warred with the cavernous gloom. Draughts pried at the documents which littered the table and attacked the struggling lamplight through the aperture above the protecting glass.

Colonel Pothecary signed a casualty return, put the pen down and sat staring at his signature while his right hand groped for the mug of tea which stood on the table.

‘A bad day for the butchering business,’ he said, ‘only eight killed.’ He sipped, and shivered with disgust; the tea was cold, curdled and too sweet.

‘There’s some hot tea coming up,’ Major Norman said softly, ‘Higgs has gone for it.’

Colonel Pothecary looked up. The colour of his face was ghastly in the lamplight.

‘I had a row with the Brigadier today,’ he said.

‘I know.’

They listened to the rats squeaking and scampering in the enveloping darkness.

‘I think he’s going to get me shifted. He thinks I’m a washout.’