Half-a-dozen blood-mad infantrymen surged past.
“Dead or alive, we can’t leave him here”—Bombardier Finlayson’s eyes took one quick glance at the chalk mounds, Bombardier Finlayson’s mind took one quick decision. “Can you carry him, Muckie?”
“Carry him?”—Mucksweat laughed—“carry ten of him.”
“Take him to those dug-outs then. Do you understand? There’ll be some cover there. And wait till I come back.”
“What are you going to do, Bombardier?”
“Me? I’m going to do his job, of course. What the hell do you think we’re here for—a picnic.”
Lips set, eyes resolute, Finlayson set off down the shattered road towards the disappearing infantrymen. Mucksweat bent down; wound his two bare arms round Peter’s body; picked him up like a child; and started for cover. . . .
§ 5
For an hour and three quarters, “B” battery’s guns had been thudding—steady fire—one round per gun per minute. For an hour and three quarters Cresswell and Charlie Henry had been walking from shelter to quivering shelter—asking always the same question—getting always a different reply.
“What’s your range, Sergeant.”