The Forward Officer made no answer but continued to stare after the disappearing stretcher-bearers. The signaller shuffled his feet in the mud and hitched up the strap of the instrument on his shoulder.
'I suppose it's all over now, sir,' he said.
'Yes, all over—except for his father, or mother, or sweetheart,' said the officer absently.
The signaller stared. 'I meant the shellin', sir.'
'Oh—ah, yes; the shelling, Jackson. Yes, I dare say that's over for to-night, since they seem to have stopped now.'
'P'raps we might see about some food, sir,' said the signaller.
'Food—to be sure,' said the officer briskly. 'Eat, drink, and be merry, Jackson, for—I'm hungry too, now I think of it. And, oh Lord, I'm tired.'
No. 2 Platoon were tired too, as they filed wearily out by the communication trench, tired and worn out mentally and physically—and yet not too tired or too broken for a light word or a jest. From the darkness behind them a German flare soared up and burst, throwing up bushes and shattered buildings, sandbag parapets, broken tree-stumps, sticks and stones in luminous-edged silhouette. A machine-gun burst into a stutter of fire, the reports sounding faint at first and louder and louder as the muzzle swept round in its arc. 'Ssh-sh-sh-sh,' the bullets swept overhead, and No. 2 Platoon halted and crouched low in the shallow communication trench.
'Oh, shut it, blast ye,' growled one of the men disgustedly. 'Ain't we 'ad enough for one day?'
'It's only 'im singin' 'is little evenin' hymn as usual,' said another.