CHAPTER XVIII
The Captured Trench
"Hallo, Malcolm!"
Above the rattle of musketry and the crash of bombs, Rifleman Carr heard his name shouted in cheery stentorian tones. Looking in the direction from which the shout came, the lad saw two stretcher-bearers jogging along with a heavy burden over the uneven ground. One of the men was Mike Dowit, the hero of the bombing exercise at far-off Featherstone Camp. It was not he who called, for his jaw was swathed in a bandage. The other man was unknown to Malcolm.
Right at the heels of the stormers the regimental stretcher-bearers had gone over the top, defenceless, and, as such, running even more risks than the infantry. Already Dowit and his companion had made three journeys to the advance dressing-station, notwithstanding the fact that the former had received a nasty wound in his chin from a fragment of shell.
"Hallo, Malcolm!" was the repeated hail, as the man in the stretcher waved his shrapnel helmet to attract attention still further.
It was Sergeant Fortescue,
"Proper buckshie this time," he declared, as the bearers, through sheer weariness, halted and set their burden on the ground. "Machine-gun copped me fairly. Three if not four bullets through my left leg, close to knee. 'Fraid I won't see you for another three months."
"Seen Selwyn?" asked Malcolm anxiously.
"Up there clearing out the dug-outs," replied Fortescue. "He's all right; so's Joliffe, M'Kane, and M'Turk. Poor little Billy Preston's done in, though. Shot through the head. I saw him. A fearful mess."