“Sorry, sir.”
Peter shifted position; found himself in a square cave of concrete. The orderly who had helped him arrive, grinned; proffered an ammunition-box. An R.A.M.C. officer emerged from the gloom; said “Good morning.”
“I dunno what they send you chaps out for”—began the Infantry Colonel, a wiry resolute man, square of chin and square of forehead—“you can’t do anything. How do you propose getting your messages back?”
“Runner to beyond Trônes Wood, sir. Then telephone.”
“Hm. We can do as well as that ourselves. What’s the use of information two hours old? These new creeping barrages are the very devil. No stopping ’em once they start. Where are you going to observe from?”
Peter told him; and they discussed details for ten minutes. The Colonel’s servant brought him tea.
“Have some?” asked the Colonel.
Peter, wet through and shivering, accepted gratefully. Asked the doctor, watching him as he drank: “Do you go over the top with the first attack?”
“He’s supposed to come with me,” interrupted the Colonel. Then to Peter: “You’d rather be on your own I expect.”
“I think so, sir.”