And now the commissary department got busy, and hot soup and coffee was rushed up to the well-nigh exhausted men. Never was a meal more welcome.
“But it doesn’t taste any better than those doughnuts did,” declared Bob, as he sat on a pile of dirt, sipping coffee from a tin cup, his face and hands plastered with mud and other dirt.
“You took an awful chance, though, Chunky,” said his chum.
“No more than that Salvation Army man did. He was braver than I, because it was my business 157 to be where I was, and he didn’t have to if he didn’t want to.”
“Well, that’s so,” agreed Ned. “But say, I’m going to see if we can’t find out how Jerry is. If he—if he’s––”
But he did not have the heart to finish.
As much had been done as was possible that day, after the terrific battle, and with the arrival of fresh reserves those who had borne the brunt of the fighting were sent to the rear to rest. Ned and Bob were among these, and, obtaining permission, they went to the dressing station to learn Jerry’s fate.
Their hearts leaped with joy when they were told that, aside from a bad scalp wound and a bullet through the fleshy part of his leg, their chum was all right.
The high-powered bullets do infinitely less damage than the old-fashioned slower-moving sort, and the wound in Jerry’s leg was a clean one.
Not so, however, the cut on his head, which was from a piece of burning shell, making a jagged wound that, however, did not touch the bone.