“Yes—just fever,” echoed his orderly.
Latimer turned upon him with his arms outstretched.
“Did I talk aloud?” he asked, in dread.
“Why, yes, sir. Weren’t you speaking to me?”
Soon their way became very steep, for the system of trenches took the side of a hill: here and there they were compelled to climb with hands as well as feet. When near the top of the hill, Latimer took off his heavy metal helmet and wiped his wet forehead with the back of his hand.
“Only one more sentry post, thank God!” he said.
Then, suddenly, an enemy battery opened fire on that sector of which Latimer had temporary charge. Most of the shells dropped in the Little Wood down below. A machine-gun from La Tortue, on their right flank, chattered incessantly, and two trench-mortars from the same place shook the air and shattered it.
Latimer hurried down the hill with his orderly behind him. In five minutes they were in the Little Wood. All the shells were dropping short. This sort of thing was likely to continue at intervals all night: it was the enemy’s usual procedure.
In the Little Wood, which smelt so stalely, Latimer sat down and suddenly began to vomit. His orderly stood by regarding him compassionately; he took a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to his master. In a few minutes Latimer, trembling and cold, rose and started to creep down the trench to the ravine....
A few hours later dawn began to paint the sky yellow, and the mountains moved out of the dark and assumed their daily places. In half-an-hour Latimer would be relieved.