"We're wounded," they answered in a dull, stupid way.
"Can you walk?"
"Yes."
"Well, don't block up the place. Get away back to the beach."
When they returned, these two were still there.
The Lamp-post had tripped over their feet and their rifles, and they blocked the trench.
"Where are you wounded?" he asked savagely.
"In the arm," one said, holding his right arm; the other growled sullenly that he'd been hit in the shoulder.
Like lightning the Lamp-post pulled up the man's sleeve and his shirt-sleeve, and ran his fingers up the arm. He tore open the other man's tunic, and passed his hand under his shirt and over his shoulder—felt nothing—felt no blood on his hands—looked at them as a field-gun flashed, and found none.
"Get out of it!" he yelled at them. "You're neither of you touched."