With hasty fingers I probed the clay and found where the bullet had struck. It must have penetrated the brain. Still the eyes followed me. I probed again. The bullet had merely grazed the scalp. It was a case of concussion. We took a great-coat from a dead comrade at his side and dragged it under him. Yielding to threats, a Chinese servant got into the trench to help us. As we raised the living from the dead the stiffened limbs relaxed and the leg moved. With a cry of horror the Chinaman leapt out of the trench and fled screaming down the hill. We lifted our burden out of the noisome pit and laid him on the ground; we broke the earthen gag and cleaned his mouth, and gave him drops of whisky and water. From his wounded head we scraped the crimsoned clay and saw that it might yet be well with him. And all the time his eyes sought mine. Captain Okada rode to a cottage at the foot of the hill and brought back some Chinamen. They placed the soldier on a door and bore him away. Three days later we entered a house filled with wounded Russian and Japanese. A wan face smiled upon us; two bright eyes welcomed us. It was our wounded soldier. He could not speak, but he nudged a comrade and pointed to the men who had plucked him out of the grave. We rode toward the wood beyond the narrow valley where hundreds had fallen before that dread company in blue. A voice called to us. We turned and saw only the dead. A low, timorous voice haunted the dread stillness of this hecatomb. Our eyes wandered over the dead in search of a sign of the living. A bush opened as though stirred by the wind, and out of the green peeped a wan face. The man’s legs were shattered: one limb hung loose like the empty sleeve of a coat. He had bound up his wounds and crawled into the bush, where he dug a shallow grave in which to hide himself from the enemy whom he had been taught to fear even in death. A few crusts of black bread and a bottle of water had kept life in him for three days, until the appearance of a European gave him courage to betray his hiding place. We took a coat from a dead soldier, and with two rifles made a stretcher upon which the groaning burden was borne to hospital. In the nullah through which the enemy fled under murderous fire, the dead and dying lay like leaves of an autumn forest. Here I happened upon a strangely pathetic group--a wounded Russian attended by two Japanese soldiers. They had made him a bed of coats, had emptied their water bottles down his parched throat, had lighted a cigarette for him, and had settled down for a comfortable talk, for wounds and death have a tongue that needs no interpreter.