“Who’ve you got there?”
“Mr. Harrison, sir; killed, sir.”
A short, red-haired officer ranged up alongside the stretcher, turned back the blanket, and somewhat hurriedly replaced it.
“Damn those pointed bullets,” he said, speaking in a detached kind of way and half to himself. His mind was working already on its problem.
“Where did it happen?”
“Caisson Trench, sir. That sniper Wilibald.”
“When?”
“Just after nine, sir.”
“Anyone with him?”
“Sergeant Small, sir.”