The toe of a boot woke 2nd Lieutenant Stanley Purves to consciousness of the fact that he was sleeping in the lee of a particularly noisome hay-stack. “Get up,” said P.J. “The Colonel wants you.” “What’s the time?” asked the thing under the hay. “Half-past four.” “My grief, what a time to get up!” He struggled to his feet, pulling wet wisps from his hair; realized that he could hardly walk for cramp; limped forward; stumbled over a low stretcher on two-cycle wheels, into the shafts of a hooded cart painted with a large Red Cross. “Anybody want me?” Doctor Carson, a light sleeper, pushed his white head out from the tilt; saw Purves making for the guns. “Suppose I’d better get up,” said the Doctor; and in doing so, woke Horrocks the Vet. They cursed each other, and stepped out onto the wet ground. Said Purves, returning: “The Weasel wants his breakfast, and he wants it damn quick.” He limped off to find Gunner Horne, found him asleep under the spidery telephone-waggon. Him, by right of seniority, Purves kicked also. Moreover, after a careful reconnaissance, the Balliol man discovered two foreign-looking boots projecting from the afore-said hay-stack, which—being sternly pulled—produced Morency. Meanwhile the four battery commanders—Torrington, hobbling along somehow in the rear—followed by two men carrying a red drum of wire, were toiling up the slope towards “Lone Tree.” |