Torrington fumbled under his canvas pillow; found his cigarette-case; stretched arm and shoulder out of blankets to light a “Gold-flake.” He looked very ill: black eyes bright with fever; pale hair damp on damp brow. The anaemic lips over the prominent teeth quivered as he drew in the smoke. “Feeling pretty rotten,” he announced. “You never ought to have come out.” “No. . . . I don’t suppose I’ll last very long. But I had to have another cut at the Boche. Besides, it doesn’t look well for a B.C.[4] to hand his battery over to some one else as soon as it’s ordered abroad.” “Well, I think you’re a damn fool,” said Peter. Every one in the Divisional Artillery, from General Blacklock to his own Battery Sergeant Major, had tried—and tried in vain—to keep Torrington at home. “Possibly. It’s this marching that does me in. I’m as stiff as the devil tonight.” He turned over uneasily in his “flea-bag.” “You don’t want to go to sleep yet, do you?” “No. Give me one of those filthy gaspers. All right, don’t you move; I’ll get them.” They lay smoking for a few minutes. There are few reticences on active service; and soon both felt the need for intimate talk. “Does it hurt much—being wounded?” asked Peter. “Like hell. At least, mine did.” “Where were you hit?” “Oh, about sixteen places. Like to hear about it?” “Rather.” This is how Torrington told his own story: “It was right at the beginning, you know. Second day of the retreat. Our infantry—Buffs—were entrenched on the forward slope of a hill. I was doing F.O.O.;[5] and like a fool I tried to observe from the crest. Boches! My hat, you should have seen ’em. Millions of ’em. Like—like gray ants. Stark was with the guns. I got in some topping bursts; must have knocked out hundreds. The Infanteers were simply mowing ’em down. Pity we hadn’t any Emma G’s.[6] Then their guns go to work. First shell landed over the trench; got me in the head; killed one of my signallers.” “What were you using”—asked Peter—“visual or the telephone?” “Telephone. My other signaller kept on sending down the orders all right. . . . I managed to get the blood out of my eyes and we gave ’em gun-fire. That kept the devils back a bit. Then they spotted _me_. Turned a machine gun on me. First bullet got me in the calf of the leg. Next one in the shoulder.” “How long was that after the first shell hit you?” “Dunno. Must have been about an hour. I should think. . . . Then they got my signaller, and I had to do the telephoning myself. . . . I don’t remember much else; except crawling round and round in a ring. You know—like a rabbit when you shoot too far behind. Then some one started singing ‘God Save the King.’ God, how I cursed that fellow. I remember saying to myself, ‘What’s the bally fool singing for? There’s nothing to sing about.’” He paused a minute, eyes curiously bright, cigarette singeing stubby moustache.