McMahon turned. What the orderly said was perfectly true. The Colonel, and with him the General, and the two umpires in the fight, were skirting the oats and making for the little grove of trees where the casualties were.
McMahon went to meet them.
“Ah, McMahon,” said the Colonel, “I’ve come to see how you’ve treated the wounded. I’ve brought the General with me. Casualties rather heavy, eh? Had a busy afternoon?”
The Colonel grinned. McMahon saluted respectfully.
“Got your list made out?” said the Colonel, “and your report on each case? Just hand them over to me, will you? The General would like to see them.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said McMahon, “but have you given orders for the padre to report here?”
“Padre?” said the Colonel. “What do you want the padre for?”
“The padre and a burying party, sir,” said McMahon. “The fact is, sir, that the wounded all died, every one of them, on the way down from the firing line. Arrived here stone dead. I couldn’t do anything for them, sir. Dead before they got to me. I’ve had them laid out, if you’d like to see them, sir. It’s all I could do for the poor fellows. It’s the padre’s job now. I understand that he keeps a register of burials, so there was no need for me to make a list, and of course I didn’t attempt any treatment. It wouldn’t have been any use, sir, when the men were dead.”