When the back door opened a voice called out:
"Weel naw, an' who might ye be?"
The Irishman answered:
"We're just lookin' for a bhuss to carry us back to the loines."
[pg 42] "This wee cabby is no takin' passengers, but maybe ye can squeeze in—for its rough walkin' here."
They had not travelled—or lumbered—far when the old tank tumbled headfirst into a deep shell-hole. With difficulty they all crawled out and had a good look at the undignified position of H.M.L.S. with her nose fast in the mud.
Each one of them said a few simple words suitable to the occasion. Henare's contribution was—"Py cripes! she can buck worse'n te wild Maori hoss."
There was nothing for it now but to walk. The enemy shelling became so fierce that the wanderers separated and dodged along—each man for himself—hiding here and there, and sheltering from time to time in large craters.
Dead and dying men were lying about in all directions—giving evidence [pg 43] of recent heavy fighting. When Henare realized this, he forgot his own danger and set to work carrying wounded men—British and German—to the shelter of a crater.
