He is a hopeless case.
The firing ceases as suddenly as it began. Silence reigns again,
broken only by a solitary shot from a trench-mortar--a sort of
explosive postscript to a half hour's Hymn of Hate.
"And that's that!" observes Captain Blaikie cheerfully, emerging from
Potsdam View. "The Hun is a harmless little creature, but noisy when
roused. Now, what about getting home? It will be dark in half an hour
or so. Platoon commanders, warn your men!"
It should be noted that upon this occasion we are not doing our full
spell of duty--that is, six days. We have merely come in for a spell
of instruction, of twenty-four hours' duration, under the chaperonage
of our elder and more seasoned brethren.
Bobby Little, having given the necessary orders to his sergeant,
proceeded to Trafalgar Square, there to await the mustering of his
platoon.
But the first arrival took the form of a slow-moving procession--a
corporal, followed by two men carrying a stretcher. On the stretcher
lay something covered with a ground-sheet. At one end projected a pair
of regulation boots, very still and rigid.
Bobby caught his breath. He was just nineteen, and this was his first
encounter with sudden death.
"Who is it?" he asked unsteadily.
The corporal saluted.
"Private M'Leary, sirr. That last shot from the trench-mortar got him.
It came in kin' o' sideways.
Pages:
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194