"Yes, Pat," he answered, and, turning over, he sat down. His face was very white.
"You should not have crawled in," I muttered. "It's only wearing you out; and it's not very healthy here."
"Oh, I wanted to get away from this hell," he said.
"It's very foolish," I replied. "Let me see your wound."
I dressed the wound and gave the corporal two morphia tablets and put two blue crosses on his face. This would tell those who might come his way later that morphia had been given.
"Lie down," I said. "When the man whom we're carrying is safely in, we'll come back for you."
I left him. In the trench were many wounded lying on the floor and on the fire-steps. A soldier was lying face downwards, groaning. A muddy ground-sheet was placed over his shoulders. I raised the sheet and found that his wound was not dressed.
"Painful, matey?" I asked.
"Oh, it's old Pat," muttered the man.
"Who are you?" I asked, for I did not recognise the voice.