"No more shells," laconically.
I descended the tree and returned to the major.
All this time the fight increased in intensity, the Germans putting over a fearful bombardment, both on the front line and away to the rear. Casualties were coming by our location in an endless stream. Some were being carried to the dressing station, but those who could walk or hobble at all, were making their way back as well as they could. It was a pitiful, yet a wonderful sight. Their battered uniforms, plastered with mud and filth, bandages of various hues on their heads, and dressings on their limbs and bodies. Some were being helped along by their comrades; others limped past with the aid of a rifle used as a crutch. Some would stop for a rest, and we would do all we could to help them, at the same time asking how things were going up in front. They told a story of tremendous bombing attacks, on both sides, but Fritz was having the better of the argument, being more liberally supplied with bombs. On hearing this, I felt again that gnawing feeling at the pit of my stomach, for I knew there would soon be some ticklish work for me. Suddenly the sight of that stream of wounded sickened me and I turned to hide my face, and ran straight into Campbell's arms.
"Good God! Ken, I shall go crazy if I don't do something, those poor devils are getting on my nerves."
"Pluck up, son," said he, "you'll feel better when we go up, and I for one am expecting it any minute."
No word of condemnation at my funk, just encouragement. Such was our Ken Campbell. Brave as a lion himself, yet possessed of a rare sympathy for those not so blessed.
The cheeriness of these wounded was wonderful, and, in spite of their hurts, they regaled us as they passed with the story of the times they were going to have in Blighty.
Then my call came. "Pass the word for a runner." Away I went to the major.
"You know the way to headquarters well?"
"Yes, sir."