"Oh, very well! There are certain arguments you can't dispute. I'll remain, but I'll find me a hole where I can be safe, because if I die the Manual of War Cookery won't be written," and he threw himself down on a big stone, signaling to the "youngster" to follow him.
A voice outside was calling for help, only a few feet away from the trench.
"Stay where you are, all of you. I'll go," commanded Scotimondo, and, wriggling like a serpent, with his revolver in his hand, he set off and was lost in the darkness. Shortly after he returned, dragging in Draghetta.
"What's the matter? Are you wounded?"
"No, not exactly wounded, but I can't stand up. I'm afraid my feet are frozen."
"Let's have a look," and he made him sit down and began to free him from his woolen puttees, his hobnailed boots, his waterproof stockings, and to rub his red, swollen feet with snow, all the time continuing to question him.
"Was it you who fired that shot?"
"Yes."
"Is the enemy in sight?"
"They tried to leave their trenches—two little groups—one of their usual nasty little ways to draw us out, and as my superiors did not see them, I thought it my duty to give the alarm signal."