“Can’t you do anything to stop this?” asked the Colonel. “I’ll lose half of my men before the show starts.”
Peter looked at his wrist-watch; saw that the face of it was caked solid with mud. He wiped away the mud with his sleeve. The hands pointed to eleven o’clock.
“I’m afraid not, sir. There’s no time to get a message back. . . .”
Came voices from above: “Easy on there, mates. Let me get down first. That’s right, now his feet. All right, sir, you’ll be all right in a minute.” Light vanished. Followed the sound of heavy bodies slithering down the mud-chute. Light appeared again. Peter was aware of a huge officer, helmetless, red bandage across his forehead—an officer who staggered to his feet, cursing some one who was trying to assist him. “Damn you,” he cursed, “damn you, I don’t want your help. I’m all right, perfectly all right, I tell you. . . .”
“Of course you are, old chap. Of course you are”—the doctor’s voice sounded perfectly calm—“you come over here with me. We’ll fix you up in a minute. . . .”
“But I told him to keep his helmet on, I told them all to keep their helmets on. . . .”
“Quite right, old chap. Quite right. Now just you sit down for a moment.”
The officer sank down in a gloomy corner of the cave. Doctor bent over him. Delirium ebbed away to vague mutterings. Another shell exploded above.
“You’d better stop here a bit,” said the Colonel.
For a second, Peter Jameson hesitated. Brain, still numb from the shell-kick, conveyed no message to faltering limbs. Then that fine sixth sense which is the inmost core of courage seemed to whisper: “And your men!”