"You don't know me!" said the man, surprise in his tones.
He turned a queer, puckered face half round, but I did not recognise him even then; pain had so distorted his countenance.
"No," I replied. "Who are you?"
"Felan," he replied.
"My God!" I cried, then hurriedly, "I'll dress your wound. You'll get carried in to the dressing-station directly."
"It's about time," said Felan wearily. "I've been out a couple of days.... Is there no R.A.M.C.?"
I dressed Felan's wound, returned, and looked for the corporal, but I could not find him. Someone must have carried him in, I thought.
Kore had got to the German barbed-wire entanglement when he breathed in a mouthful of smoke which almost choked him at first, and afterwards instilled him with a certain placid confidence in everything. He came to a leisurely halt and looked around him. In front, a platoon of the 20th London Regiment, losing its objective, crossed parallel to the enemy's trench. Then he saw a youth who was with him at school, and he shouted to him. The youth stopped; Kore came up and the boys shook hands, leant on their rifles, and began to talk of old times when a machine gun played about their ears. Both got hit.
M'Crone disappeared; he was never seen by any of his regiment after the 25th.
The four men were reported as killed in the casualty list.