The mind of Peter Jameson, emerging slowly from the dark of unconsciousness, was aware of pain. Thought followed; then sight.

He was in a dug-out, lying at the foot of deep steps—atop of which light glimmered. Opposite to him, propped against the wall, sat a wounded officer—a subaltern of infantry. The subaltern, who was smoking a cigarette, said: “Hallo. Thought you were dead.” Then he shouted up the steps: “Hi, you gunner—hi.”

Mucksweat’s voice answered, “Yes, sir. What is it, sir?”

“Your officer isn’t dead. He’s just opened his eyes.”

The huge coal-miner clambered backwards down the steps, bent over Peter; and Peter spoke to him, vaguely, as men speak in delirium: “My water-bottle. Do you understand? My water-bottle”—Mucksweat unslung his own. “No. Not yours. Mine.”

Mucksweat pulled out his clasp-knife—it was impossible to unsling the bottle without moving the man—cut the straps, uncorked, put the aluminium neck to Peter’s lips.

The whisky-and-water—a good tumbler-full of which splashed over his face as he drank—woke Peter to effort. He sat up; looked at his throbbing bandaged arm; asked where he was.

Mucksweat explained: “You remember they chalk-heaps, sir. Well, we’re inside one of them. Bombardier said I was to wait here till he come back. That’s why I was waiting upstairs, sir.”

“Who bandaged this arm of mine?”

“I did, sir.”

“Good lad.” Gradually, Peter’s aching brain pieced the situation together. He could just remember the scramble out of the sunken road, the hammer-clang on his helmet. “Where’s the Bombardier gone to?”

“I dunno, sir. He said he was agoing to do your job.”

“Agoing to do your job.” The words acted like a spur on Peter’s dazed mind. “Do my job”—he echoed—“I’ll see the fellow damned first. Give me a hand, will you?”

Wonderingly, the coal-miner obeyed; and Peter staggered somehow to his feet. The dug-out spun round him; his arm hurt abominably; but he was going to do his job—oh, undoubtedly, he was going to do his job. It lay, the job he was going to do, somewhere up above—up those damned steps—blast the steps—there must be millions of them—and the light atop of them had gone out....

“Better lay him down again,” said the infantry subaltern calmly. “I expect it’s only a faint.”

He lit a cigarette, looked down at his own legs, both broken by machine-gun bullets, thought: “They can’t get us away before dark”; and went to sleep.

Mucksweat, left alone with two unconscious officers, picked up the smouldering cigarette, put it in his mouth, scratched head meditatively—and returned to his watch at the stair-head.