"Why have you not covered his face?"
"We put a handkerchief over it, sir, but he took it off. He said he preferred to remain like this, so that he could still look at things between his fingers."
Ah! the last two men have blood as well as sweat pouring over their faces and trickling in a little stream down their necks.
"It is nothing much, sir," they say, "we got that as soon as we started. We began by carrying him along the communication trenches, but that jolted him too much, so then we walked along outside in the open."
Poor fellows, admirable for their very carelessness. To save their wounded man from jolts they risked their own lives. Two or three of these death-bringing cockchafers, which go humming along here at all hours, came down and were crushed to pieces on the stones close to them, and wounded them with their shattered fragments. The Germans disdain to fire at a single wayfarer like myself, but a group of men, and a stretcher in particular, they cannot resist. One of these men, both of whom are dripping with blood, has perhaps actually received only a scratch, but the other has lost an ear; only a shred is left, hanging by a thread.
"You must go at once and have your wound dressed at the hospital, my friend," I say to him.
"Yes, sir. And we are just on our way there, to the hospital. It is very lucky."
This is the only idea of complaint that has entered his head.
"It is very lucky."
And he says this with such a quiet, pleasant smile, grateful to me for taking an interest in him.