“Our place is advancing,” said he, “not retiring because of a few spent bullets. There's men there dying for want of medical attention—bleeding to death.”
The next time we went forward that day was in Indian file, each stretcher-squad following the one in front.
A parson came with us. I marched just behind the adjutant, and the parson walked with me. He was a big man and a fair age. We went past the well and the bivouacs. I could see he was very nervous.
“Do you think we are out of danger here?” he asked.
“I think so, sir” (we were three miles from the firing-line). A few paces further on—
“I wonder how far the firing-line is?”
“Couldn't say, sir.”
A yard or so, and then—
“D'you suppose the British are advancing?”
“I hope so.” And after a minute or two—