“Cap—cap,” called Jim, feebly. Henderson bent over him. “I’ve only got a splinter—only stunned. Get to O. D. first.” Jimmy tried to get loose and go to O. D., who lay quiet in a pool of blood.
“Johnson—Johnson, try to bind O. D.’s wound,” ordered the C. O., turning to a man who sat all huddled up amid the horror and torture, puffing wildly at a cigarette like some grotesque being.
“Can’t touch him,” answered Johnson, blowing a mouthful of smoke after the jerky words. “God have mercy on me,” he kept repeating. The fellow’s nerve was gone. Henderson had seen a few like him before. He let him alone.
Jimmy crawled to O. D.
“O. D.—O. D.! Talk to me! God! Look at his back; it’s all busted up. O. D., I’m Jimmy. Answer me, boy,” implored his pal.
Henderson came with a mess-cup full of water and some bandages.
The water brought O. D. to a state of semi-consciousness. Jimmy saw his eyes flutter open about half-way and he started talking again.
“We’re fixin’ you, boy—hang on. The Boches never was made to get you and me. We got to go back to Mary, O. D.”
“Jimmy—Jimmy—” The name was called so faintly that Jimmy could hardly hear it. He bent his ear close to O. D.’s blue lips.
“I’m listenin’, pal. What is it?”