"If there's anybody left alive in this hole, won't he speak up? I'm badly hurt myself." That must be the new doctor; wasn't his dressing station somewhere down here? Hurt, he said. Claude tried to move his legs a little. Perhaps, if he could get out from under the dirt, he might hold together long enough to reach the doctor. He began to wriggle and pull. The wet earth sucked at him; it was painful business. He braced himself with his elbows, but kept slipping back. "I'm the only one left, then?" said the mournful voice below. At last Claude worked himself out of his burrow, but he was unable to stand. Every time he tried to stand, he got faint and seemed to burst again. Something was the matter with his right ankle, too--he couldn't bear his weight on it. Perhaps he had been too near the shell to be hit; he had heard the boys tell of such cases. It had exploded under his feet and swept him down into the ravine, but hadn't left any metal in his body. If it had put anything into him, it would have put so much that he wouldn't be sitting here speculating. He began to crawl down the slope on all fours. "Is that the Doctor? Where are you?" "Here, on a stretcher. They shelled us. Who are you? Our fellows got up, didn't they?" "I guess most of them did. What happened back here?" "I'm afraid it's my fault," the voice said sadly. "I used my flash light, and that must have given them the range. They put three or four shells right on top of us. The fellows that got hurt in the gully kept stringing back here, and I couldn't do anything in the dark. I had to have a light to do anything. I just finished putting on a Johnson splint when the first shell came. I guess they're all done for now." "How many were there?" "Fourteen, I think. Some of them weren't much hurt. They'd all be alive, if I hadn't come out with you." "Who were they? But you don't know our names yet, do you? You didn't see Lieutenant Gerhardt among them?" "Don't think so." "Nor Sergeant Hicks, the fat fellow?" "Don't think so." "Where are you hurt?" "Abdominal. I can't tell anything without a light. I lost my flash light. It never occurred to me that it could make trouble; it's one I use at home, when the babies are sick," the doctor murmured. Claude tried to strike a match, with no success. "Wait a minute, where's your helmet?" He took off his metal hat, held it over the doctor, and managed to strike a light underneath it. The wounded man had already loosened his trousers, and now he pulled up his bloody shirt. His groin and abdomen were torn on the left side. The wound, and the stretcher on which he lay, supported a mass of dark, coagulated blood that looked like a great cow's liver. "I guess I've got mine," the Doctor murmured as the match went out. Claude struck another. "Oh, that can't be! Our fellows will be back pretty soon, and we can do something for you."