He got to work again,—and slowly deepened that narrow trench,—giving a little grunt of physical anguish each time he made a stroke with the pick. The thing was done at last, and Brent stood resting like an old man, leaning on the handle of the spade, and looking at Beckett’s body. He had been so absorbed in the work, and his senses were so dull and unalert, that he was quite unaware of the fact that a German patrol had straggled across the field and through the orchard, and that an N.C.O. and four privates were standing a few yards away, watching him. They, too, were very dirty, these “field-greys,” sallow-faced and heavy about the eyes. They looked at Brent with a mixture of curiosity, amusement, and the elemental sympathy of men for a soldier doing a soldier’s job.
“Hallo—Tommy!”
Brent turned and looked at these “field-greys,”—without surprise and without fear. It was as though he had expected them. They were just dirty, tired men like himself, part of the earth, part of the great machine.
“Morning,—Fritz.”
He jerked a thumb towards the body.
“My pal.—I’m done. Give me a hand, will you?”
The N.C.O. spoke English, but the affair was so elemental and so human that the whole group understood. They helped Brent to lift the body into the grave and to put back the earth, using their boots and the spade.
Brent picked up his pay-book and handed it to the N.C.O.
“You had better keep that, Fritz.”
A young, fair-haired German was standing close to Brent and looking at him intently. He noticed the Englishman’s dry lips and pinched nostrils, his dirty chin, and starved eyes and forehead.