Very soon a third trooper who had been wounded made his way to the thicket. With great difficulty, room was found for him. Andrews had hardly moved his position so that the newcomer could be accommodated when a bullet mortally wounded the stranger. He cried piteously for water, but there was not a drop to be had, and the three wounded soldiers endured the agonies of thirst that whole afternoon of intense heat. The night came bitterly cold, increasing the suffering of the three. Moreover, a full moon made the night as clear as day, and every movement in the thicket was followed by a bullet from the Turks. A bullet grazed Potts’ left ear as he lay flat on the ground, face down. The morning brought death to the stranger. He had kept on murmuring wearily, “Water! Water!” The whole of the next day the two survivors lay hidden in the hot scrub, not daring to move, tortured by thirst, suffering from their wounds, and trying to get relief by sucking bits of stalks which they managed to pick from the shrubs. That night, as the only hope of salvation was to get away, they began to crawl off, Potts leading and Andrews following. They lay perfectly flat, and literally wriggled. From six at night—when darkness fell—till three in the morning they dragged themselves, dust-choked, a distance of about three hundred yards—as Potts calculated afterwards, thirty-three yards an hour. A bit of burnt scrub near at hand afforded slight protection; this was taken, and the troopers tried to sleep, but the extreme cold made rest impossible. When daylight came, some water was obtainable, but only by crawling to men who had been killed and whose bottles could be reached. This dreadful day passed, Potts doing his best to stanch his comrade’s bleeding wounds. The third night on the hill came. A SHOVEL TO THE RESCUE