Three men, hobbling, using their rifles as crutches, completed the pageant of pain.
"Copped it proper," explained one of the wounded. "Never 'ad as much as a blinkin' chance to fire my blessed rifle."
"Wouldn't 'ave been much use if you did, Tommy," rejoined his comrade with a laugh. "You knowed as 'ow you're the rottenest shot in the battalion."
"No need to rub that in afore a lot of strangers," retorted the other. "'Op it; I'll race you to the dressing-station. No more dashed first line trenches for us for a bit, thank 'eaven. Foot it, you blighter, afore your leg gets stiff."
The twain vanished into the darkness, leaving the dank, reeking odours of dirt and sweat in the muggy air.
Another hundred yards and a voice rang out:
"Is that the ration party?"
"No," replied the sergeant. "Reliefs for the Wheatshires."
"Good luck to 'em, then!" rejoined the speaker. "But where the deuce are the rations? There's no barrage fire on now, an' we ain't seen no grub for two whole days."
"Keep your heads down, lads."