He worked the dirt out of his mouth with the tip of his tongue and set himself for a supreme effort. A quick breath and more dirt filled his mouth. He could not move a muscle in his body. He tried to shout and more earth entered his mouth. It gritted its way down his throat.
So this was the end. The young soldier grew calm and waited for it to come. After all it was not so bad. He had done his best and now it was all over. That was the chance a soldier was compelled to take. The pain left him and the whole world turned black.
"Ouch," cried somebody suddenly. "He bit my finger."
"Never mind that," said another voice. "Get the dirt out of his mouth."
Leon felt a finger enter his throat and he coughed. Some one was working his arms up and down and his wounded shoulder pained him. He struggled up but sank back to his knees and began coughing up dirt.
"Spit that dirt out on your parapet," said a voice which Leon recognized as belonging to Dubois, one of his mates. "You'll need it all there."
Dubois was the joker of the regiment and everybody laughed. Even Leon smiled. He was feeling much better now and all the men except Earl returned to their holes. Jacques had been taken to the rear by the Red Cross to have his wound dressed.
"What hit me, Earl?" asked Leon.
"Dirt hit you," said Earl. "A shell exploded just the other side of you."
"It must have been a big one."