When he came to, it was daylight, and two Stretcher Bearers were tugging at his feet. The weight of him seemed terrific, but eventually they hoisted him on to the stretcher.
Some of his men gathered round, and told him that "they'd soon put him straight at the hospital."
He smiled, rather wryly, but still he smiled, and mumbled: "Well, good luck, No. 5 Platoon."
And so they carried him away, feet foremost.
They plunged along the muddy paths. He was convulsed with fear that they would overturn him. And the jolting sent red-hot pains through his head, and twisted his back terribly.
A Company came straggling up the path, led by no other than the Major, who had been his Company Commander at the beginning of the war.
"Well, young feller, how are you? You'll be all right in a day or two."
Reply was impossible for him, and the Major hurried on.
The men who followed seemed shy of him. They looked at him covertly, and then turned their eyes quickly away, as if he were some horrible object. It annoyed him not a little.
That journey was the most painful thing that happened to him. But each sickening jolt had the compensation of landing him a yard nearer the hospital, and the hope of easing his pains buoyed him up somehow.