"It's good enough for Blighty, old lad!" exclaimed Malcolm.
"No dinkum Blighty for me!" expostulated Joliffe vehemently. "Never had a chance to fire a round yet--nor to use my blinkin' bay'net. But I mean to," he added. "If the boys go over the top without me there'll be trouble!" Malcolm bound up the wound, adjusting the bandages tightly. Although the dressing operation was a painful one, Grouser Joliffe never uttered a sound, although Malcolm could see beads of perspiration glistening on the rifleman's wrinkled forehead.
"How's that?" he asked.
Joliffe lifted his left arm with an effort.
"Feels a bit stiff," he admitted. "Maybe you've tied those bandages a bit too tight. Still, 'tisn't your fault. When we get back I'll have a few swings with my rifle and bay'net; then if the dressing wants altering you'll bear a hand?"
"Certainly!" said Malcolm, as he helped the man on with his coat.
"You'll be lucky if you don't fall out before we get back," he soliloquized.
Having drawn the stores, the ration-party set out on the return journey. Until they reached the commencement of the communication-trench they were able to make use of a couple of empty trucks which were lying on a siding close to the dump.
The vehicles each had four flanged wheels. The bodies were made of wood, originally painted grey, but little of the paint was left. Caked mud still stuck to the bottom of the trucks, but men in the firing-line cannot be fastidious. Loaves, bags of sugar, tea, and tins of bully beef were thrown in indiscriminately. The water-carriers lifted their heavy burdens--every drop of water had to be taken into the trenches, for, although there are springs and water-holes in abundance close to the firing-line, the risk of contamination had to be carefully guarded against--and the "homeward" trek began.
Beyond a few desultory shells the British artillery was practically inactive. Fritz had already been used to a furious bombardment as a preliminary of a "big stunt". For change, he was not being warned in this fashion, and, consequently, although expecting an attack within the next few days, the absence of a downright strafe put him off his guard. Nevertheless, the German guns on the spur of Messines Ridge, and miles beyond the heights, were persistently "watering" the ground behind the British lines.