The Somme by H. G.; A. D.; Wells Gristwood Read Free Book Online Page B

attack, and surely the worst was behind him. As soon as it was dark, venturing to sit up and look about him, he was startled to find that of all those who had thrown themselves down around him only some half-dozen remained, and that these lay motionless and silent. Evidently the others had risked everything to obtain some kind of shelter.
    His first business was to examine his leg. To his great joy he found that he could move it freely without pain: evidently a simple flesh wound that had not yet had time to stiffen. Sitting upright, his next care was to tear off his equipment, and fling his bomb as far from him as he was able. This abandonment he marked as the first faint turning of the tide: never had a man fewer qualms in the surrender of property. He was getting rid of hated encumbrances and realized for the first time, and with a kind of fearful joy, that no one could blame him, and that, howsoever helpless, he was his own master until he should reach an ambulance.
    And this brought home to him how far away help was, and how doubtful his chances. With a sinking heart he remembered the infinite toil of the journey to the line. How could he hope to reach even the trench, much less the road? He must see if he could find anyone to help him. It was a starry night, and within a circuit of perhaps twenty yards he could see some dozen motionless and contorted bodies. The gloom hid other horrors doubtless, but a faint and intermittent groaning showed that some at least of these muddy bundles yet held tortured life within them. The man who had been hit three times was still conscious, panting for breath, but speechless from exhaustion.
    Everitt’s effort to stand upright showed that his leg, if unbroken, yet thrilled with pain when weight was placed upon it. It seemed that it must snap at the least pressure, and he noticed that the contracting muscles had drawn the heel upwards until only the toes could touch the ground. Evidently he could not walk unaided.
    Help was imperative, and instinctively he thought of Myers. He had forgotten his existence for half a dozen hours, but weakness quickened his affection. In dread of the enemy he dared not raise his voice above a whisper, but almost immediately one of the motionless figures rose to its feet and blundered clumsily towards him. (But in no-man’s-land at night every man has the gait of a drunkard.) A flare, however, revealed the cause of the figure’s staggering, and at the same time showed that it was Myers.
    But a Myers strangely altered! Round his head was a field-bandage, black with congealed blood, and an ominous wine-coloured crust concealed his face. From the edge of the roughly tied bandage the blood had dripped and hardened into grotesque black stalactites. Beneath its stains his face showed white and ghastly. ‘Caught a whack from shrapnel,’ he whispered. ‘Knocked me silly for some time, and at first I thought I was done for. Just as though my head had been split. It’s throbbing like the devil and I’m as giddy as a goose. What’s yours?’
    Everitt explained, and together they tied a field-dressing to his leg. The muddy puttee was tightly glued to the flesh beneath, but persistent effort removed it to reveal a neat plum-coloured patch on either side of the calf. His arm was stiffening and they despaired of releasing it from the sleeves of great-coat and tunic.
    All at once they discovered that they were parched with thirst, and in a minute their two water-bottles were empty. Immediately there arose from every side that terrible litany of the wounded: ‘A drink, for Christ’s sake.’ Myers seemed to be the only man capable of walking, and he did the only thing possible – took their bottles from the dead and gave them to the living. He also produced a flat circular tin of malted milk lozenges (‘Meat and drink together,’ said the advertisement) and these the scare-crows munched together with huge