nly, as three soldiers came in, drawing the curtain aside, he
shouted in a shrill, high-pitched voice:

"Keep the curtain closed! Do you want to asphyxiate us?"

He strode up to the newcomers, his voice strident like an angry woman's.
"What are you doing here? This is the poste de secours. Are you
wounded?"

"But, my lieutenant, we can't stay outside ..."

"Where's your own cantonment? You can't stay here; you can't stay here,"
he shrieked.

"But, my lieutenant, our dugout's been hit."

"You can't stay here. You can't stay here. There's not enough room for
the wounded. Name of God!"

"But, my lieutenant ..."

"Get the hell out of here, d'you hear?"

The men began stumbling out into the darkness, tightening the
adjustments of their masks behind their heads.

The guns had stopped firing. There was nothing but the constant swishing
and whistling of gas-shells, like endless pails of dirty water being
thrown on gravel.

"We've been at it three hours," whispered Martin to Tom Randolph.

"God, suppose these masks need changing."

The sweat from Martin's face steamed in the eyepieces, blinding him.

"Any more masks?" he asked.

A brancardier handed him one. "There aren't any more in the abri."

"I have some more in the car," said Martin.

"I'll get one," cried Randolph, getting to his feet.

They started out of the door together. In the light that streamed out as
they drew the flap aside they saw a tree opposite them. A shell
exploded, it seemed, right on top of them; the tree rose and bowed
towards them and fell.

"Are you all there, Tom?" whispered Martin, his ears ringing.

"Bet your life."

Someone pulled them back into the abri. "Here; we've found another."

Martin lay down on the bunk again, drawing with difficulty each breath.
His lips had a wet, decomposed feeling.

At the wrist of the arm he rested his head on, the watch ticked
comfortably.

He began to think how ridiculous it would be if he, Martin Howe, should
be extinguished like this. The gas-mask might be defective.

God, it would be silly.

Outside the gas-shells were still coming in. The lamp showed through a
faint bluish haze. Everyone was still waiting.

Another hour.

Martin began to recite to himself the only thing he could remember, over
and over again in time to the ticking of his watch.

"_Ah, sunflower, weary of time.
Ah, sunflower, weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the sun;
Ah, sunflower,