I was watching the men working like demons inside the gun-pit, hauling the big shell and the bags of powder from the magazines, and training her with the clumsy tackles, when presently Dr. Richardson called me.
He had found a little hollow in the side of the hill overlooking the sea, and there he had brought all the wounded men and was busy among them still, with monkey-jacket off and sleeves rolled up.
He was bandaging a marine who had just been struck by a shrapnel bullet.
It had struck him a slanting blow on the back of his head, and he sat there gazing stupidly in front of him, supporting himself mechanically with his hands as he swayed unsteadily.
When he had finished the bandage, Dr. Richardson lowered him on his back in the grass, and injected something into his arm with a syringe which the sick-berth steward handed him.
He shoved the needle right through the skin, and I thought that the man would surely yell, but he only opened his eyes for a second and then closed them again.
"Now, Glover, if you have nothing to do, try and get some cocoa for these fellows."
I was only too jolly glad to do anything for them—there were nearly twenty of them huddled in a sheltered corner, most of them apparently asleep, and one or two groaning terribly.
I stepped across to Sergeant Haig, and the stern old man got hold of some cocoa and some water out of a breaker, and I hunted up some fairly dry wood for the fire, and in time we got it hot. I had to carry it back myself, as he would not leave his men. When I had done this, and everyone who was not unconscious had had some of the cocoa, Dr. Richardson sent me to get blankets and any oil-skins I could collect. The blankets were not difficult to find, for they were all under that big tarpaulin, but very few men had their oil-skins, and those that had them were not any too willing to part with them.
But I managed to bring back half a dozen, and we covered up all the wounded we could.