He blocked a vicious kick with his knee, but his wounded leg gave way. The next instant he was rolling on the ground, with the Jap’s buck teeth snapping at his throat, and the Jap’s knife slashing his ribs.
Desperately he twisted aside and jabbed with his bayonet. His enemy screeched and went limp.
Another mob of helmeted figures came bounding through the tall grass. Barry heaved the dead Jap aside, and came up on one knee. Sweat stung his eyes, blurring them. He gripped his bayonet for a last thrust.
“Hold it, man!” yelped a Yankee voice. “Don’t you know your friends?”
The newcomers were infantrymen, arriving just too late for the finish. They had popped out of the communication trench and were looking for more Japs. With them was a medical-corps man—the same one who had attended Barry in the field dressing station. Seeing Barry’s new wounds, he whipped out a hypodermic needle, and drove it home before the young flier knew what was happening.
“You bonehead!” Barry cried. “I’m only scratched. Now you’ve fixed me so I can’t carry on. There’s a lot of mopping up to do. Those Jap field guns—”
“We’ve plenty of men to take care of them, sir,” the corporal interrupted. “If the Lieutenant will permit me to contradict him, wounds two and three inches deep are hardly scratches. They need to be stuffed with sulfa powder—not dirt. And besides that, sir, you’ve lost a lot of blood.”
“Oh, have it your own way,” sighed Barry, as the swift-acting drug began to take effect. “Got a drink of water handy? I’m thirsty as a fried fish.”