A perceptible shudder shook the young soldier's frame.
"Come on, Dunstan!" shouted Don, suddenly.
The art student instantly discovered what had attracted his companion's attention. Stretcher bearers were making their way over the heaps of débris ahead in search of the wounded. Don was already hurrying toward them, and Dunstan sprang to join him.
The nerves of the ambulanciers had on many occasions been put to pretty severe tests, so they were now rapidly recovering from the effects of their thrilling experience; but they were still in a situation of the gravest danger, for shells were every now and again screeching overhead.
Quickly reaching the brancardiers, the two were face to face with a scene which but for their experiences as Red Cross drivers would have perhaps made them falter and turn pale. The attack had exacted its full toll of dead and wounded. Many of both lay about, and the stretcher bearers were busily engaged in carrying the wounded to the dressing station just behind the lines.
Two, close at hand, were feverishly trying to release a wounded, half-unconscious poilu pinned down by a supporting timber of the trench.
The Red Cross men at once leaped to their assistance, though each had the uncomfortable realization that there was no shelter to protect them from the enemy's fire.
No words were exchanged by any of the four. The brancardiers used their spades while Don and Dunstan laid hold of the timber. By their united efforts it was at last raised and dragged aside. The two Red Cross drivers helped to place the soldier on the stretcher, and as they did so he opened his eyes and exclaimed, weakly:
"Well, I thought the Boches had got me that time—but they didn't."
"You are mighty fortunate," commented Don.