"A mask, in the name of God, a mask!" a voice shouted, breaking into a squeal, and an unshaven man, with mud caked in his hair and beard, burst through the curtain. His eyelids kept up a continual trembling and the water streamed down both sides of his nose. "O God," he kept talking in a rasping whisper, "O God, they're all killed. There were six mules on my waggon and a shell killed them all and threw me into the ditch. You can't find the road any more. They're all killed." An orderly was wiping his face as if it were a child's. "They're all killed and I lost my mask.... O God, this gas ..." The doctor, a short man, looking like a gnome in his mask with its wheezing rubber nosepiece, was walking up and down with short, slow steps. Suddenly, 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.