"And now I've got a buckshie," he decided. "Wonder where I am?"
He raised his head and looked around. The effort sent a throbbing pain from the base of his neck to his spine. He felt bruised all over, while his left arm was tightly bandaged from elbow to wrist. A strange, almost uncanny silence seemed everywhere, and yet the place was teeming with activity.
The dressing-station was in the open. The ground was crowded with bundles of straw and stretchers, each occupied by a helpless human being. More stretchers were constantly arriving with their ghastly burdens. Men slightly wounded were staggering in, covered with dust, and looking utterly dejected. Not one had a smile upon his face.
Malcolm had seen an advance dressing-station more than once, where casualties were arriving after a stiff engagement. Then he had been struck by the cheerfulness shown by most of the men. Even the badly wounded were elated, for the day had gone well, and they were happy in the knowledge that the stiff task imposed upon them had been brilliantly accomplished. But things seemed different here.
In front of a partly demolished barn, over which was flying a Geneva Cross flag, covered ambulance motors were being filled up with wounded, who, their injuries attended to, were being dispatched to the base hospital. To Malcolm's bewilderment, the powerful motors started in absolute silence, while the heavy wheels made no sound as they jolted over the pavé.
Gradually the sensation of dizziness diminished, and it dawned upon Malcolm that he was still a prisoner. Everywhere the field-grey uniforms were conspicuous, but even that discovery did not explain the deep silence.
Making another effort, the rifleman sat up. The blanket that covered him had slipped off. From the waist upwards he was destitute of clothing. His skin was as yellow as that of a Chinese.
On the straw to his right was a Hun whose right leg had been badly injured. The man was trying to attract Malcolm's attention, but although his lips were moving no words fell upon the lad's ears.
In vain the New Zealander tried to reply. If he spoke he was unaware of it. The sound of his own voice was absent. He was deaf and dumb.
When Malcolm was thrown by the concussion of the bursting shell, he alighted in the trench he had left, unconscious, his uniform partly torn off, and his face and body dyed with the yellow fumes. In this state he lay insensible for several hours. When the bombardment cleared, the threatened infantry assault did not materialize. It was not intended that it should, the object of the artillery activity being to keep the Germans pinned to that section of their defences while other operations were being carried out in another part of the line. So, when the guns died down to a desultory shelling, the Huns set to work to clear up the badly-damaged trenches.