A blinding flash seemed to leap up from the floor, and, with a deafening roar bursting upon his ears, Malcolm was dimly conscious of being hurled backwards by a terrific blast, then everything became a blank.
He regained his senses to find himself in utter darkness. He was lying on the floor with his shoulders and head leaning against something aggressively hard. Acrid fumes assailed his nostrils. He tried to move, to find a heavy, inert body lying across his legs.
Groping to find out the nature of his surroundings, his hand came in contact with his uncomfortable pillow. It was a pair of hobnailed boots. As he thrust them aside the wearer stirred.
"What's up, Sergeant? Another stunt?"
It was M'Turk, wandering in his mind. Evidently he was under the hallucination that the Platoon sergeant was rousing him at an unearthly hour of the morning.
"Where are we, M'Turk?" asked Malcolm.
The Digger grunted.
"Ask me another, chum," he replied, coughing after every word. "By gum! I remember--those swine of Huns and fifty tons of explosives. Well, we're still alive and kicking, so to speak. Where are the others? The Captain?"
"Someone lying across my legs," replied Malcolm. "Our captain, I fancy. Have you a match?"
"Have I a match?" repeated M'Turk mirthlessly. "A dozen boxes in my dug-out. Came with me last parcel--but ne'er a one on me. Where's that torch?"