Hartman laughed again in the same manner. He had completely lost control of his muscles and would have fallen face downward if Hicks had not held him up.
“Tell Lieutenant Bedford that there’s something the matter with Hartman,” Hicks shouted.
The word was passed along.
“Lieutenant Bedford says for you to get somebody else and take him back to the first-aid station. He’s probably shell-shocked.”
“Oh, Gillespie,” Hicks called. “Come and help me take Hartman back to the first-aid station.”
“Oh, Hicks, I can’t. I’m sick at my stomach. I couldn’t help carry anything.”
“Well, Pugh—come on, Pugh, you help me.”
And Pugh got out of his hole, a few yards away, and ran over. Both men, one holding his legs and the other his shoulders, tried to dodge the stream of machine-gun bullets as they hurried the shell-shocked man to the dressing station.
In the village there was greater safety—cellars to hide in, and there to escape the flying pieces of shells that fell into the town at short intervals.
Hicks and Pugh rested for a moment, filled their canteens with water, and started back. Half-way to the platoon they found a Frenchman lying upon his back.