"No; they were Germans that wasn't dead," came the surprising reply. "They were cooking food."
"When was this?" I asked.
"Yesterday, just as it was growin' dusk," said the wounded man in a weary voice. "Then the Germans saw me and they began to shout and they caught hold of their rifles. I jumped over the trench and made off with bullets whizzin' all round me. I tripped and fell into a shell-hole and I lay there until it was very dark. Then I got into the English trenches. I 'ad a sleep till mornin', then I set off to look for my regiment."
While he was speaking I had lit the candle which I always carried in my pocket and placed it on the floor of the dug-out. I examined his wound. A bullet had gone through the left forearm, cutting the artery and fracturing the bone; the blood was running down to his finger tips in little rivulets. I looked at the face of the patient. He was a mere boy, with thoughtful dark eyes, a snub nose, high cheekbones; a line of down showed on a long upper lip, and a fringe of innocent curling hairs straggled down his cheeks and curved round his chin. He had never used a razor.
I bound up the wound, found a piece of bread in my pocket and gave it to him. He ate ravenously.
"Hungry?" I said.
"As a 'awk," he answered. "I didn't 'ave nothin' to-day and not much yesterday."
"How long have you been out here?" I asked.