“Oh, yes.”—Peter laughed. “I’ll be loaded like an ammunition-mule by the time Garton’s finished with me—haversack, gas-helmet, field-glasses, Sam Browne, the whole paraphernalia. Damned heavy. One gets out of the habit of wearing ’em.”
“Do you think the attack will succeed?”
“Hope so. We’ve had about four shies at the sanguinary place already.”
“It’s our own infantry, I suppose.”
“Lord, no. They got smashed up at Delville Wood weeks ago. . . . Well, it’s about time I was off”—Peter got up, took a long iron-shod stick from behind him,—“au revoir and enjoy yourself while I’m away.”
Henry watched him scramble painfully out of the trench, and remembered Sandiland’s words: “An obstinate cove.” “I should say so,” muttered Henry. “I should just about say so.”
§ 2
“You chaps got your rations?”
“Yes, sir.”
Peter looked at his three men: Bombardier Finlayson, tall, tight-lipped, clean-shaven, shrapnel-helmet atilt on the back of his head; Blenkinsop, a dark, keen little Northumbrian; and Mucksweat, huge, hairy, more like a bear than a man, who had volunteered for “runner.”