“I fear rather bad news, Dunbar. Indeed, I fear he is seriously wounded. We have sent him straight on to Contay. Your officers have suffered quite severely.”
“Have you heard what the casualties are, sir?”
“Not exactly,” replied the General. “We shall not know until evening, but we must be prepared for a heavy loss. By the way, can you be spared from the casualty clearing station? I hear you are doing fine work there. If you can run up, I can send my car for you.”
“I'm afraid not, sir, just now. Perhaps later on in the afternoon.”
“Let me speak to Colonel James,” said the general.
The O. C. came to the phone.
“Yes, sir,” he said.—“Well, we are short handed just now.—He is really necessary at the present moment.—Yes, later on we'll send him up.—Very well, sir.—We are doing our best.”
The calm and confident bearing of his superior officer, made Barry ashamed of the unnerving emotion from which he had been suffering all morning. He returned to his work resolved to put aside all personal considerations. The thing in which they were engaged was vastly more important than the fate of any individual or of any battalion. Victory was necessary, was guaranteed, and was demanding its price. That price was being paid, and to that price every man must make his contribution.
Toward night the stream of wounded gradually grew less, and the O. C. sent Barry, in a returning ambulance, up to the Divisional Headquarters. The serenity with which the general received him did much to restore Barry's poise, which had been severely shaken by the strain of the night and day with the wounded in the casualty clearing station and by the heartracking agony he had suffered over the loss of his comrades.
“Come in, Dunbar,” said the general kindly. “Take a seat for a few minutes. Have a cigar. These you will find are good, I think.”