"Been expecting you, George," he said, sleepily.
"Anything besides your leg?" George asked.
"Guess not," Lambert answered. "What more do you want? Thanks for coming."
George left him to the stretcher bearers and hurried on full of envy; for Lambert was going home, and George hadn't dared stop to urge him to forget that dangerous nonsense he had talked the other night. Nonsense! You had only to look at these brown figures trying to flank the spouting guns. Why did they have to glance continually at him? Why had they paused when he had paused to speak to Lambert? Same side of the window! But a few of them stumbled and slept as they fell.
He had just begun to worry about the blood in his right boot when something snapped at the bone of his good leg, and he pitched forward helplessly.
"Some tackle!" he thought.
Then through his brain, suddenly confused, flashed an overwhelming gratitude. He couldn't walk. He couldn't go forward. He wouldn't have to take any more risks beyond those shared with the stretcher bearers who would carry him back. Like Lambert, he was through. He was going home—home to Sylvia, to success, to the coveted knowledge of why he had fought this war.
The lieutenant, frightened, solicitous, crawled to him, summoning up the stretcher bearers, for the advance had gone a little ahead, the German range had shortened to meet it.
"How bad, sir?"
George indicated his legs.