the bearers
themselves coming back as casualties. The reason for these things took
little finding. The fighting line was now well advanced, and every yard
of advance meant additional time and risk in the bearing back of the
wounded.

One of the regimental stretcher-bearers put the facts bluntly and briefly
to the doctors: 'The open ground an' the communication trenches is fair
hummin' wi' shells an' bullets. We're just about losin' two bearers for
every one casualty we bring out. Now we're leavin' 'em lie there snug as
we can till dark.'

A chaplain came in and asked permission to stay there. 'One of my
regiments has gone up, he said, 'and they'll bring the casualties in
here. I won't get in your way, and I may be able to help a little. Here
is one of my men now.'

A stretcher was carried in and laid with its burden under the doctor's
hands. The man was covered with wounds from head to foot. He lay still
while the doctors cut the clothing off him and adjusted bandages, but
just before they gave him morphia he spoke. 'Don't let me die, doctor,'
he said; 'for Christ's sake, don't let me die. Don't say I'm going to
die.' His eye met the chaplain's, and the grey head stooped near to the
young one. 'I'm the only one left, padre,' he said. 'My old
mother. . . . Don't let me die, padre. You know how--it is, back home.
Don't--let me--die--too.'

But the lad was past saving. He died there on the table under their
hands.

'God help his mother!' said the chaplain softly. 'It was her the boy was
thinking of--not himself. His father was killed yesterday--old Jim
Doherty, twenty-three years' service; batman to the O.C.; would come out
again with young Jim and Walt. Been with the Regiment all his life; and
the Regiment has taken him and his two boys, and left the mother to her
old age without husband or chick or child.'

The two doctors were lighting cigarettes and inhaling the smoke deeply,
with the enjoyment that comes after hours without tobacco.

Another man was borne in. He was grimed with dust and dirt, and smeared
with blood. The sweats of agony beaded his forehead, but he grinned a
twisted grin at the doctors and chaplain. 'An' 'ere we are again, as the
song says,' he said, as the stretcher was laid down. 'This makes the
third time wounded in this war--twice 'ome an' out again. But this is
like to be the last trip I'm thinkin'. Wot about it, sir? Will I be
losin' 'em both?' And he looked do