“Rather. The first thing I knew was a bit of shrapnel through the sleeve of my coat; I looked for the hole this morning, to see if I was remembering rightly, and sure enough, here it is.” He held up his arm, and showed a jagged tear in his tunic. “But that’s where I stop remembering anything. I suppose I must have caught something else then. Why is my head tied up? It was all right when they began to carry me over.”
“Ye have a lump the size of an egg low down on the back of your head, sir,” said Callaghan. “And a nasty little cut near your temple.”
“H’m!” said Jim. “I wondered why it ached! Well I must have got those from our side on the way across. I hope they got a Boche or two as well.”
“I dunno,” Callaghan said. “The fellas that dumped you down said something in their own haythin tongue. I didn’t understand it, but it sounded as if they were glad to be rid of you.”
“Well, I wouldn’t blame them,” Jim said. “I’m not exactly a featherweight, and it can’t be much fun to be killed carrying the enemy about, whether you’re a Boche or not.”
He lay for a while silently, thinking. Did they know at home yet? he wondered anxiously. And then he suddenly realized that his fall must have looked like certain death: that if they had heard anything it would be that he had been killed. He turned cold at the thought. What had they heard—his father, Norah? And Wally—what did he think? Was Wally himself alive? He might even be a prisoner. He turned at that thought to Callaghan, his sudden move bringing a stifled cry to his lips.
“Did they—are there any other officers of my regiment here?”
“There are not,” said Callaghan. “I got the priest to look at your badges, sir, the way he could find out if there was anny more of ye. But there is not. Them that’s here is mostly Dublins and Munsters, with a sprinkling of Canadians. There’s not an officer or man of the Blankshires here at all, barring yourself.”
“Will the Germans let us communicate with our people?”
“Communicate, is it?” said the Irishman. “Yerra, they’ll not let anyone send so much as a scratch on a post-card.” He dropped his voice. “Whisht now, sir: the priest’s taking all our addresses, and he’ll do his best to send word to every one at home.”