"It may be England with this," he said.
"Any others struck?" I asked Pryor who was busy with a first field dressing on the wounded arm.
"Don't know," he answered. "There are others, I think."
"Every man down this way is struck," came a voice; "one is out."
"Killed?"
"I think so."
"Who is he?"
"Spud Higgles," came the answer; then—"No, he's not killed, just got a nasty one across the head."
They crawled across us on the way to the dressing station, seven of them. None were seriously hurt, except perhaps Spud Higgles, who was a little groggy and vowed he'd never get well again until he had a decent drink of English beer, drawn from the tap.
The shelling never slackened; and all the missiles dropped perilously near; a circle of five hundred yards with the trench winding across it, enclosed the dumping ground of the German guns. At times the trench was filled with the acid stench of explosives mixed with fine lime flung from the fallen masonry with which the place was littered. This caused every man to cough, almost choking as the throat tried to rid itself of the foreign substance. One or two fainted and recovered only after douches of cold water on the face and chest.