“Very funny,” said Peter, sorry for present sickness, but imagination only vaguely stirred by bare recital of the past. “How did you get away?”
“Oh, that was where the Weasel got his D.S.O.”[[7]] Now that he told another’s story, Torrington grew a little more explicit. “He came up, under direct rifle and machine-gun fire, on his horse mark you, as soon as I stopped telephoning. They killed his horse for him, and he got a bullet through his ankle: but he managed to get us both away somehow—he’s as strong as a mule you know. Damned if I understand how he managed it: we only had one leg between the pair of us. . . .”
He leaned forward, stretched a hand to the candle: as he blew it out, his pajama slipped from his neck and Peter saw the sullen weal of a bullet-wound on the shrunken shoulder.
“Wonder you’ve got the nerve to go into action again,” commented Peter across the darkness.
“As a matter of fact, the mere idea of marching up to those gun-pits tomorrow night, scares me to death,” said Torrington, V.C.
| [4] | Battery Commander. |
| [5] | Forward observing officer. |
| [6] | Machine guns. |
| [7] | Distinguished Service Order. |