"Are you sleepy?" asked Bubb, who had woke up.
"No," the Irishman answered unconcernedly. "Please take your hand away! Take it away at once."
Bubb paid no heed but his hand gripped tighter still. Fitz tried to shake it off, but the effort was monstrously futile. But what did it matter? He was living in a confused and muddled nightmare and his mind was a great vacant chamber filled with spectres more impalpable than air.
"The lights!" somebody said. "Look at them!"
The starshells seemed very near, blazing in the heavens, green, red and white. The green was restful to look upon, the white hard and cold; the red starshells were lurid wounds dripping with blood. Fitz shuddered and his eyes sought the ground again....
"On the left of the road, fall out!"
The command was given in a weak voice and the men dropped down on the withered grass. It was now almost dawn; the ambulance waggons were tearing along the road and the wounded could be heard groaning and cursing as the vehicles were jolted from side to side on the cobbled way.
The battle to which the London Boys were going was at an end now. The soldiers were dimly conscious of this but all were indifferent to the result of the conflict.... Most of the men were already asleep. A cold breeze was blowing and high up in the air the starshells were still blazing merrily over the firing line.... Soldiers came tottering back from battle in platoons, in squads, in pairs. They were all war-worn and dejected, they straggled by, their heads sunk on their breasts. Now and again the men spoke to them, but they seldom made answer and when they replied their answers were ever the same.
"The Boche attacked," they said. "Christ! he didn't half send some stuff across 'fore he came over. We chased him back. But 'twas a fight."