"Prisoners? No, they _don't!_ Pass up word from me that the whole
boiling are to be hoisted on to the parapet, with their escort, and
made to walk above ground."
The order goes forward. Presently our hearts are rejoiced by an
exhilarating sight. Across the field through which our trench winds
comes a body of men, running rapidly, encouraged to further fleetness
of foot by desultory shrapnel and stray bullets. They wear grey-green
uniform, and flat, muffin-shaped caps. They have no arms or equipment:
some are slightly wounded. In front of this contingent, running even
more rapidly, are their escort--some dozen brawny Highlanders, armed
to the teeth. But the prisoners exhibit no desire to take advantage of
this unusual order of things. Their one ambition in life appears to be
to put as large a space as possible between themselves and their late
comrades-in-arms, and, if possible, overtake their captors.
Some of them find time to grin, and wave their hands to us. One
addresses the scandalised M'Slattery as "Kamarad!" "No more dis war
for me!" cries another, with unfeigned satisfaction.
After this our progress is more rapid. As we near the front line, the
enemy's shrapnel reaps its harvest even in our deep trench. More than
once we pass a wounded man, hoisted on to the parapet to wait for
first-aid. More than once we step over some poor fellow for whom no
first-aid will avail.
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