“Ah saw a feller had a gold-handled sword,” said Chrisfield.
“Where's that?”
“Back there in the wood”; he waved his hand vaguely.
“Ah've got to find ma outfit; comin' along?” Chrisfield started towards the other edge of the clearing.
“Looks to me all right here,” said the other man, lying down on the grass in the sun.
The leaves rustled underfoot as Chrisfield strode through the wood. He was frightened by being alone. He walked ahead as fast as he could, his puttee still dragging behind him. He came to a barbed-wire entanglement half embedded in fallen beech leaves. It had been partly cut in one place, but in crossing he tore his thigh on a barb. Taking off the torn puttee, he wrapped it round the outside of his trousers and kept on walking, feeling a little blood trickle down his leg.
Later he came to a lane that cut straight through the wood where there were many ruts through the putty-coloured mud puddles; Down the lane in a patch of sunlight he saw a figure, towards which he hurried. It was a young man with red hair and a pink-and-white face. By a gold bar on the collar of his shirt Chrisfield saw that he was a lieutenant. He had no coat or hat and there was greenish slime all over the front of his clothes as if he had lain on his belly in a mud puddle.
“Where you going?”
“Dunno, sir.”
“All right, come along.” The lieutenant started walking as fast as he could up the lane, swinging his arms wildly.