“Where’s Mucksweat?” he asked at last.
“You told him to stop about 20 yards back, sir. Just round the corner.”
“Quite right. So I did. You’d better go and join him. I’ll observe from there. This place is rather dangerous.” He staggered to his feet; made for the entrance to Headquarters. Finlayson watched him disappear down the greasy mud-chute; shrugged shoulders; rejoined his companions.
“I dunno what you think about it, Muckie,” said Bombardier Finlayson; “but it seems to me we’re in for a hell of a day.”
Answered Mucksweat the ex-coalminer, crouching bear-like in yellow slime, “He shouldn’t have come. That’s what I say.”
§ 3
Peter slid, feet first, into cavernous darkness. A hand gripped him by the shoulder; helped him up. A voice said “Hello. Who are you?”
“Gunner Liaison Officer, sir.”
Darkness cleared to half light. Peter was aware of a man sitting over a map at an uncleanly table.
“Well, if you’d come from the door we might see something of you.”