"What's wrong with you, man?" I asked.
"'Oo are yer?" inquired the sentry.
"A London Irish stretcher-bearer," I said.
"Why are yer comin' through our lines?" asked the sentry.
"I'm just going back to the trench," I said. "I've been taking a wounded man down to Maroc."
"To where?" asked the man with the bayonet.
"Oh! it seems as if you don't know this place," I said. "Are you new to this part of the world?"
The man made no answer, he merely shoved his bayonet nearer my breast and whistled softly. As if in reply to this signal, two forms took shape in the darkness and approached the sentry.
"What's wrong?" asked one of the newcomers.