"Find the C.O.," ordered Captain Nicholson. "Give him this--at all costs."
Malcolm took the folded paper and thrust it in his pocket, unfixed his bayonet and returned it to the scabbard, slung his rifle, and started off at a run in the direction of the invisible Messines village. According to the ethics of the Great War a dispatch-bearer must walk while under shell-fire, but when exposed to rifle-fire he may run without loss of dignity or prestige. And, since the matter was urgent, Malcolm felt glad that he was not to traverse a shell-watered zone.
Wounded men, both friend and foe, called imploringly as he passed. Beyond a few cheering words to his helpless comrades he could do nothing to aid them. His errand was too pressing. There were dead, too, in ghastly heaps, some with their fingers still clutching the throats of their opponents, others in a naturally recumbent position that gave the appearance of having fallen easily to sleep.
All the while bullets were whizzing overhead, thudding against the debris that littered the ground, or ricochetting from the hard earth. In his imagination Malcolm felt that he was the target for a whole Prussian division. No wonder, then, that his heart was in his mouth as, bending low, he darted from shell-hole to shell-hole and took advantage of the slightest shelter afforded by a rise in the terrain.
A feeling of utter loneliness assailed him. It was different from advancing with tried and trusted comrades around him and the inspiring dash that accompanied the rush of men confident of victory. Save for the slain and wounded he was alone in the open, not facing bullets, but followed and overlooked by a regular hail coming from an unseen source.
"I've got the wind up this time," he muttered. "Hope I'm on the right track. I don't remember passing this----"
His foot tripped on a strand of wire, the lowermost and only intact part of an entanglement. Down he crashed heavily, his shrapnel-helmet rolling down a declivity for a distance of nearly ten yards.
"Buckshie for me this time," he exclaimed, without making an effort to rise. "Wonder where I've got it?"
Gradually he made the discovery that beyond a grazed instep, for one of the barbs had penetrated his boot, he was unwounded. His ankle was throbbing painfully. In his fall he had sprained it. With an effort he regained his feet, clenched his teeth as a sharp twinge shot through his frame, and again pushed onwards. Although at a deminished pace he still ran--not from inclination but from a sense of duty.
A bang and a cloud of white smoke high above his head told Malcolm that the guns were renewing their activity.