"Can't say," replied Sefton.
"Plugging a shot-hole with his bare back. Had his shoulder wedged against the gash. He'd been like that for twenty minutes--and he'd lost three fingers of the right hand."
"You'll have to make a special report," remarked the sub.
"A special report of every man of my department you mean!" exclaimed Boxspanner enthusiastically. "By Jove! If you could have seen them----"
The arrival of the doctor cut short the engineer-lieutenant's eulogies.
"Just up for a breather," gasped Stirling. "Thought I'd let you know how things are going in my line. A bit stiff our butcher's bill. The skipper's pretty rough. Took a wicked-looking chunk of high-explosive shell out of his forehead. I've had the deuce of a job to stop the flow of arterial blood from a gash in his leg. He'll pull through. He's as hard as nails."
"That's good," said Sefton and Boxspanner in one breath.
"Talking of nails," continued Stirling, "I've just had a rum case--Thompson, the leading signalman. Took fifty pieces of metal from his hide. The poor wretch couldn't sit down, although the wounds were light. Those strafed Huns had crammed one of their shrapnel-shells with gramophone needles. Fact! I'm not joking! I suppose they haven't the heart for any more music, so they made us a present of the needles. How much longer to daybreak?"
"About a quarter to three, Greenwich time," replied Sefton. "I haven't a watch."
He did not think it necessary to explain that his wristlet watch had been ripped from its strap by a flying fragment of shell. He was becoming painfully aware of the circumstance, for every movement of his wrist gave him a sharp pain.