Herbert regained his feet instantly, looking to see the damage and calling for a runner to hurry back for an ambulance. The lad dashed away and a man, heavy-set, with the sleeve marks of a sergeant, marching some distance in the rear, offered the remark, with what seemed a half sneer:
“Red Cross car just down the hill, coming up.”
“Don’t see it. Sure of that?” There was something in the fellow’s manner that nettled the young lieutenant and he spoke sharply, quickly; he must get back to his men. Then he added:
“Who are you?”
“Liaison officer. With the Thirty-fifth Division and this one.”
“Where are your men?” Herbert turned to go.
“Scattered around, of course, and on duty.” The man spoke with an attempt to appear civil, but it was clearly camouflage; his habitual contemptuous expression and lowering glance indicated all too plainly that he possessed some animosity toward the lieutenant. Herbert, noting this, wondered. He had never seen the fellow before; evidently the dislike was sudden, mutual. Whitcomb ran on up the hill and rejoined his men, never once looking back, and the incident was at once almost forgotten.