ger in good trim, thinking at the
time what a ludicrous shot I'd be with the left hand. A thought for
soldiers in training: Are you ambidextrous? I've never fired a shot
with the left.

The wound itself was a puzzler. Almost at once the arm swelled until
it seemed that a duck egg had been inserted under the flesh. But,
feeling around it, there was no hard substance beneath. The sleeve
showed two holes within three inches of each other where the cartridge
had gone in and out. What probably happened was that my shot had
diverted his aim and his bullet had passed under my crooked elbow and
armpit, merely searing the forearm in a caressing sort of way. The
blood was negligible. Altogether, it was a "cushy blighty," as the
Tommy puts it. We reloaded our revolvers to wait for nightfall. There
was a bit of stale bread in the bottom of my gas mask, forgotten until
now. I split it into three parts, about two mouthfuls for each, and
dug out some half-soaked cigarettes.

"We'll have a smoke, Jack" (military rank is forgotten sometimes), "if
it's the last," I said, and he agreed with a wan sort of smile.
Herschowitz whispered that he didn't smoke, and dropped asleep as the
words left his mouth.

None of us had water. And we were very thirsty. The boys had white,
sticky saliva in the corners of their mouths, and, from the feel of
mine, I knew that I had too.

To the inevitable monody of machine guns, we dozed until dusk came.
Then with compass and revolver, one in each hand, I started again upon
the eternal crawl. My arm had grown in circumference until the sleeve
was tight upon it. Crawling added nothing to its comfort, for to do
the crawfish stroke the elbows are pushed out ahead and upon them as
anchors the rest of the body is then drawn up. As yet it was not
necessary to go so carefully. But when, after hours, we came to a
clearing as grateful as I was for the chance of unhampered movement, I
dropped to hands and knees. Ten minutes of thus shinning passed
without event. Then suddenly a boche voice called out, a little to our
front: "_Bist du Deutsch_?" That much German I understood. We
flattened. As it happened, we were at the foot of a tree at the base
of which grew brush. We lay motionless. Again the voice, with its
demand in intonation.

Then the bolt of a rifle clicked clearly and the owner of the voice
fired. The flash was clear against the night. From the right and left
of the flash, and cl