Something suddenly seemed to sting my wrist and a sharp pain shot up my arm. I raised my hand and saw a dark liquid dripping down my palm on to my fingers.
"I wonder if this will get me back to England," I muttered, and turned back to the dressing-station.
Mac had not gone down to the cellar; the water bottle was still uncorked.
"Back again?" he inquired.
"It looks like it," I replied.
"You're bleeding, Pat," he exclaimed, seeing the blood on my hand. "Strafed, you bounder, you're strafed."
He examined my wound and dressed it.
"Lucky dog," he said, handing me the water bottle. "You're for blighty, man, for blighty. I wish to God I was! Is it raining now?" he asked.
"It is just starting to come down," I said. "How am I to get out of this?" I inquired.