A stairway led down to the dug-out; an officer lay asleep at the entrance, and a lone cat lay curled up on the second step. At the bottom of the stair was a bundle of khaki, moaning feebly.
"Much hurt?" I asked.
"Feelin' a bit rotten," replied a smothered voice.
"Where's your wound?"
"On my left arm."
"What is your regiment?" I asked, fumbling at the man's sleeve.
"The East Yorks," was the reply to my question. "I was comin' up the trench that's piled with dead Germans. I couldn't crawl over them all the way, they smelt so bad. I got up and tried to walk; then a sniper got me."
"Where's your regiment?" I asked.
"I don't know," was the answer. "I got lost and I went lookin' for my mates. I came into a trench that was crowded with Germans."
"There's where you got hit," I said.