“Thank you, sir,” they said, and set off at a smart pace.
While Barry sat listening to the sound of their footsteps upon the pavement, there came that terrific whine, followed by an appalling crash, as a H. E. shell landed full upon the road. Barry sprang to his feet. Three other shells followed in quick succession, then there came the sound of hurrying feet and a man appeared, bleeding horribly and gasping.
“Oh, my God! My God! They are gone! They are gone!”
“Sit down,” said Barry. “Now, where's your wound?”
“My arm, sir,” said the man.
Barry cut off the blood-soaked sleeve, ripped open his first aid dressing, and bound the wound up tightly. Then he put a tourniquet upon the arm above the wound.
“The other boys killed, you say?” he inquired.
“Yes, sir, blown to pieces. Oh, my God!” he groaned, shuddering. “My chum's whole head was blown off, and the other has his belly all torn up.”
“Now look here, old man,” said Barry, “you lie down here where you are, and keep perfectly still,” for the man was throwing himself about, more from shock than from pain. “We'll get you to the dressing station in a few minutes. Monroe, run and get the stretcher bearers, and I'll go and see how things are up yonder.”
He threw his coat over the wounded man, and set off at a run toward the crossroads. He found matters as the man had said, the two bodies lying in a dark patch of bloodsoaked dust, one with head quite blown off, and the other with abdomen horribly torn.