"I suppose our grub will get lost this night again," said Bill. "It's always the way. I wish I was shot like that bloke there."
"Where?" I asked.
"There," answered Bill, pointing at the man with the blue and pinched face who lay in the corner. "'E's gone West."
"No," I said. "He's asleep!"
"'E'll not get up at revelly, 'im," said Bill. "'E's out of the doin's for good. 'E got wounded at the door and we took 'im in. 'E died." ...
I approached the prostrate figure, examined him, and found that Bill spoke the truth.
"A party has gone down to Maroc for rations," said Pryor, lighting a cigarette and puffing the smoke up towards the roof. "They'll be back by eleven, I hope. That's if they're not blown to pieces. A lot of men got hit going down last night, and then there was no grub when they got to the dumping ground."
"This man," I said, pointing to the snoring figure on the ground. "He is all right?"
"Dead beat only," said Pryor; "but otherwise safe. I am going to have a kip now if I can."
So saying he bunched up against the wall, leant his elbow on the brazier that refused to burn, and in a few seconds he was fast asleep. Bill and I lay down together, keeping as far away as we could from the dead man, and did our best to snatch a few minutes' repose.