"Are we advancing?"
"No, but we are holding our ground. It is their machine-guns that are the trouble. They're just awful!"
"Are you in pain?"
"No!"
"What does it feel like, a bullet?"
"It burns a bit, but it doesn't hurt much."
Some others, wounded in the leg, began to pass by. These were evidently in great pain. They were perspiring with fatigue and heat, for the sun, now in the zenith, was beating straight down in the hollow through which the road wound. Many were helping themselves along by the aid of sticks cut from the hedges.
An officer's horse went by, led by a stretcher-bearer and bearing a foot-soldier whose thigh had been broken by a shell. The wounded man was clutching the animal's mane with both hands, his right leg hanging helpless. Just above the knee was a rent in his breeches through which the blood flowed freely, running down to his boot and dripping thence to the ground. His eyes were closed and his bloodshot eyelids, pale lips, and the red beard covering his long, bony jaws, made him look like one crucified.
"Can you manage to hold out?" asked the stretcher-bearer.