Ahead of them, in the ravine, where they had been a few days ago, shells broke, reporting noisily. More shells were hurled over, to fall and explode, battering at the ravine. Meanwhile the barely discernible P-tt continued around them. The bombardment seemed to be everlasting. Under so heavy a bombardment the ravine must be levelled out. Bang, crash, bang, up in front at the ravine. P-tt, P-tt, P-tt, back where the platoon was lying. Out of the noise a voice was heard calling: “Hey, Third Platoon. We want volunteers for stretcher bearers!” Through the dimness made by the glass eyes of his mask, Hicks saw a man come stumbling through the trees.
“Where are you, Third Platoon?” the form cried.
Hicks drew off his mask, yelled “HERE!” and replaced it, then forcing the contaminated air out of the mask.
“We want volunteers.” The form had a querulous voice.
Hicks took off his mask again. “Put on your mask!” he shouted.
“Damn the mask!” cursed the form. “We’ve got nothing but wounded men up at the front line and we want some help.”
From somewhere among the still figures Lieutenant Bedford arose and walked to the form.
“Hello, doc. You better put on your mask. The gas is damn heavy here.” He dove into his mask again.
“Damn it, I came back here for volunteers, not to be told what to do. We got a lot of wounded men up there.”
“All right; I’ll get you some men.” He summoned six men and ordered them to take litters up to the ravine.