“But, captain, he was wounded!”
“He was?” The captain looked up startled. “He said nothing about it!”
“He wouldn’t, of course,” said the soldier. “He’s that way. But he was wounded in the arm. I helped him bind it up.”
“How bad?”
“I don’t know. He wouldn’t let me look. He said he would attend to it when he got back.”
“Well, he’s taken a wireless in his pocket and crept across No Man’s Land to find out what the enemy is going to do. He’s wearing a dead Jerry’s uniform——!”
The captain turned and brushed the back of his hand across his eyes and a low sound between a sob and a whispered cheer went up from the gathered remnant as they rendered homage to their comrade.
For three days the messages came floating in, telling vital secrets that were of vast strategic value. Then the messages ceased, and the anxious officers and comrades looked in vain for word. Two more days passed—three—and still no sign that showed that he was alive, and the word went forth “Missing!” and “Missing” he was proclaimed in the newspapers at home.
That night there was a lull in the sector where Cameron’s company was located. No one could guess what was going on across the wide dark space called No Man’s Land. The captain sent anxious messages to other officers, and the men at the listening posts had no clue to give. It was raining and a chill bias sleet that cut like knives was driving from the northeast. Water trickled into the dugouts, and sopped through the trenches, and the men shuddered their way along dark passages and waited. Only scattered artillery fire lit up the heavens here and there. It was a night when all hell seemed let loose to have its way with earth. The watch paced back and forth and prayed or cursed, and counted the minutes till his watch would be up. Across the blackness of No Man’s Land pock-marked with great shell craters, there raged a tempest, and even a Hun would turn his back and look the other way in such a storm.