“I could feel the boots,” Jim said. “I’m bruised with them yet. What time did we go over that morning?—nine o’clock, wasn’t it?”
“It was, sir.”
“Well, it was twelve or one o’clock when they dug me out. They re-took the trench, and started to dig themselves in, and they found me; I’ve a spade-cut on my hand. My Aunt, that was a long three hours!”
“Did they treat you decent, sir?”
“They weren’t too bad,” Jim said. “I couldn’t move; I suppose it was the weight on me, and the bruising—at least, I hope so. They felt me all over—there was a rather decent lieutenant there, who gave me some brandy. He told me he didn’t think there was anything broken. But I couldn’t stir, and it hurt like fury when they touched me.”
“And how long were you there, sir?”
“They had to keep me until night—there was no way of sending back prisoners. So I lay on a mud-heap, and the officer-boy talked to me—he had been to school in England.”
“That’s where they larned him any decency he had,” said Callaghan.
“It might be. But he wasn’t a bad sort. He looked after me well enough. Then, after nightfall, they sent a stretcher party over with me. The German boy shook hands with me when we were starting, and said he was afraid he wouldn’t see me again, as we were pretty sure to be shelled by the British.”
“And were you, sir?”