e answer.

"I reckon so. The swine are running all along the line; only one or
two of 'em holdin' us up. Look out." He pulled Reginald to one side,
and pointed behind him.

Majestically, squelching through the mud, came Tiny Tim, or the Tired
Tank. It was pitching and rolling like a squat old tramp making heavy
weather beating up Channel. They waved at it as it passed by, lurching
ominously but going straight for the machine-gun nest. Once it almost
seemed to disappear as it waddled down an extra large hole with its two
stern wheels waving foolishly in the air; but a moment later it
squirmed solemnly up the far side, and rolled on to its chosen target.
The wire was uncut; but it trod on the wire, and the wire was not.

"Look at the perishers running," howled Shorty, as he watched some men
doubling back from the death-trap. Their arms were waving foolishly:
one could imagine their faces grey-green with terror, their hoarse
shouts of fear, their desperate hurry to avoid the thing that was
coming. "Lumme! I must draw a bead on that bunch," muttered Shorty
eagerly. "Now then, son, you can hit one of that lot." He turned from
the scene in front, and the next instant he was down on his knees.
"What is it, boy, what is it?"

The man lying stiffly on the ground grinned yet once again, and shook
his head. Thus does it come--suddenly, in a second. To the spectator
behind--"our losses were not as great as had been anticipated." To the
man--journey's end.

"I've got it this time, Shorty," he remarked, and he seemed to speak
with difficulty. The roar of the guns was passing onwards, the din was
not quite so deafening. "My bally old back seems all numb."

Just a stray bullet; just a broken back; just a finish. With the eye
of knowledge Shorty looked at the grey tinge already spreading over the
boy's face, and the mystery of death struck him forcibly: something of
the strangeness of it all. In five minutes--four--ten--what
matter?--the lips now capable of speech would close for ever: the man
whom he had known and lived alongside of for months would be gone for
good. The desperate finality of it; the utter futility of the
onlooker. . . .

"Is the Tank clearing 'em out, Shorty?" The dying man interrupted his
thoughts, and he looked up to see what was happening.

"It is that, son; it's doing fine. The old thing is sittin' there like
a broody hen spittin' at 'em, and the swine are running like hell."

"God!