"Where's Claud?"
"He's hit," interjected a sergeant. "I saw him fall."
"What—dead?"
"Couldn't say." And the sergeant passed on. War does not allow of sentiment or lengthy harangues.
"Curse them!" said Bill, throwing down his rifle in anger. And then this great, strong man collapsed with grief. When a soldier weeps it is sad. This was but the climax of a highly nervous day. Bill's heart, like every bushman's heart, was full of that faith and devotion which passes all understanding. Claud was a pal whom he loved like a mother or a brother.
"D—— their bullets! I'm going back to get him," he muttered, preparing to jump out again.
"Paddy Doolan's wid you," said the Irishman. They both jumped out into the still bullet-swept zone.
"Come back, you fools," roared a sergeant.
There was no answer. Bill would not allow discipline or danger to interfere with the call of duty or friendship. On their hands and knees they crawled round the heaps of dead and dying.
"Here he is—here he is, poor boy! Poor boy!" said Paddy as he gazed at the pale, bloodless face of Claud below some battered Turks.