CHAPTER XVIII
TRENCH LIFE
Blake was the first to scramble to his feet, rolling out from beneath a pile of dirt and stones that had been tossed on him as the shell heaved up a miniature geyser and covered him with the débris. Then, after a shake, such as a dog gives himself when he emerges from the water, and finding himself, as far as he could tell, uninjured, he looked to his companions.
Private Drew was staggering about, holding his right hand to his head, and on his face was a look of grim pain. But it passed in an instant as he cried to Blake:
"Hurt Buddy?"
"I don't seem to be," was the answer, given during a lull in the bombardment and firing. "But I'm afraid——"
He did not finish the sentence, but looked apprehensively at his prostrate chums. Both Joe and Charlie lay motionless, half covered with dirt. One camera had been upset and the tripod was broken. The other, which Blake had been operating, seemed intact.
"Maybe they're only knocked out. That happens lots of times," said Drew. "We'll have a look."
"But you're hurt yourself!" exclaimed Blake, looking at a bloody hand the soldier removed from his head.
"Only a scratch, Buddy! A piece of the shell grazed me. First I thought it had taken me for fair, but it's only a scratch. If I don't get any worse than that I'm lucky. Now to have a look at your bunkies."