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 Sergeant Godstone dragged him to a shell-hole, and MacTaggart went back for the others. He was alone now, and the queer comfort which the Sergeant’s presence had given him was withdrawn. He looked fearfully at each dug-out door, expecting to see a German bayonet emerging. By the time he had got to the men again he felt weak and hopeless. He fingered his pistol, thinking, “One shot for me and one for each of the men. They won’t get any prisoners.”

At his feet a wounded man looked up piteously.

“Ma airm an’ ma leg’s off,” he cried, full of his own pain, “Ma airm an’ ma leg’s off.” MacTaggart felt that the chap would have appealed just the same to a Prussian for sympathy. A great pity flooded his mind, mixed again with wild anger at the man for giving him all this trouble.

“Oh, you silly devil,” he shouted in a high unnatural voice, “can’t you crawl on your other leg and arm?”

The man groaned. “Turn me over, sir, and I’ll try.”

There was a noise of feet and guttural voices along the trench beyond. MacTaggart tore a bomb from his bag and threw it over the traverse. Screams followed the burst and feet running rapidly away.

A man slipped down from the parapet above him. “I heard ye were left behind, sir,” he said, conversationally, and