He got his few men out of it, with their several casualties, and started them carting brick rubble from the dilapidations of the Château to make an emplacement for a machine-gun on the near side of the bridge. He stood looking at the road by which the Bosche must come—a mere lane that led from one of the neighbouring coal-pits, and was used, he imagined, for transport of coal that was required locally. It meandered out of sight, among low fenceless fields, until the shallow undulations of the ground hid it. In the distance was the steamy reek of last night’s battle, but nothing that moved, amid the silence broken only by long-distance shots, and fusillade somewhere on the left. Then, down that road he saw a party advancing, led by an officer. There was no doubt that they wore khaki. He waited by the bridge for them, and shouted directions to them how to cross. He got an answer:
“Hallo, you old devil, what are you doing?”
It was that Kavanagh. There had been an advanced signal exchange, and he had gone to bring his men in. They were tired, hungry and disgusted, but Kavanagh had the jauntiness of old. He wasn’t going back to Division, he was going to stay with dear old Dormer, and see this through. Dormer thought a moment, then said: “All right.”
“All right. I should think so. I don’t suppose I could catch Division, even on a motor-byke. They must be nearly at Calais. It’s all rot. The Bosche are done!”
“Are they?”
“Sure. What are they waiting for now?”
“Bringing up their artillery?”
“That won’t blow the water out of the canal.”
“Possibly not. But we may as well have some food while it’s possible.”
“You old guts. Always eating!”