Part 38 (1/2)

But I was buried for all that. All our chaps were fighting on top of me!”

”D'ye tell me!” gasped Callaghan incredulously.

”I could feel the boots,” Jim said. ”I'm bruised with them yet. What time did we go over that morning?--nine o'clock, wasn't it?”

”It was, sir.”

”Well, it was twelve or one o'clock when they dug me out. They re-took the trench, and started to dig themselves in, and they found me; I've a spade-cut on my hand. My Aunt, that was a long three hours!”

”Did they treat you decent, sir?”

”They weren't too bad,” Jim said. ”I couldn't move; I suppose it was the weight on me, and the bruising--at least, I hope so. They felt me all over--there was a rather decent lieutenant there, who gave me some brandy. He told me he didn't think there was anything broken. But I couldn't stir, and it hurt like fury when they touched me.”

”And how long were you there, sir?”

”They had to keep me until night--there was no way of sending back prisoners. So I lay on a mud-heap, and the officer-boy talked to me--he had been to school in England.”

”That's where they larned him any decency he had,” said Callaghan.

”It might be. But he wasn't a bad sort. He looked after me well enough. Then, after nightfall, they sent a stretcher party over with me. The German boy shook hands with me when we were starting, and said he was afraid he wouldn't see me again, as we were pretty sure to be sh.e.l.led by the British.”

”And were you, sir?”

”Rather. The first thing I knew was a bit of shrapnel through the sleeve of my coat; I looked for the hole this morning, to see if I was remembering rightly, and sure enough, here it is.” He held up his arm, and showed a jagged tear in his tunic. ”But that's where I stop remembering anything. I suppose I must have caught something else then. Why is my head tied up? It was all right when they began to carry me over.”

”Ye have a lump the size of an egg low down on the back of your head, sir,” said Callaghan. ”And a nasty little cut near your temple.”

”H'm!” said Jim. ”I wondered why it ached! Well I must have got those from our side on the way across. I hope they got a Boche or two as well.”

”I dunno,” Callaghan said. ”The fellas that dumped you down said something in their own haythin tongue. I didn't understand it, but it sounded as if they were glad to be rid of you.”

”Well, I wouldn't blame them,” Jim said. ”I'm not exactly a featherweight, and it can't be much fun to be killed carrying the enemy about, whether you're a Boche or not.”

He lay for a while silently, thinking. Did they know at home yet? he wondered anxiously. And then he suddenly realized that his fall must have looked like certain death: that if they had heard anything it would be that he had been killed. He turned cold at the thought.

_What_ had they heard--his father, Norah? And Wally--what did he think? Was Wally himself alive? He might even be a prisoner. He turned at that thought to Callaghan, his sudden move bringing a stifled cry to his lips.

”Did they--are there any other officers of my regiment here?”

”There are not,” said Callaghan. ”I got the priest to look at your badges, sir, the way he could find out if there was anny more of ye.

But there is not. Them that's here is mostly Dublins and Munsters, with a sprinkling of Canadians. There's not an officer or man of the Blanks.h.i.+res here at all, barring yourself.”

”Will the Germans let us communicate with our people?”

”Communicate, is it?” said the Irishman. ”Yerra, they'll not let anyone send so much as a scratch on a post-card.” He dropped his voice. ”Whisht now, sir: the priest's taking all our addresses, and he'll do his best to send word to every one at home.”

”But can he depend on getting through?”

”Faith, he cannot. But 'tis the only chance we've got. The poor man's nothing but a prisoner himself; he's watched if he goes tin yards from the church. So I dunno, at all, will he ever manage it, with the suspicions they have of him.”

Jim sighed impatiently. He could do nothing, then, nothing to keep the blow from falling on the two dear ones at home. He thought of trying to bribe the German guards, and felt for his pocket-book, but it was gone; some careful Boche had managed to relieve him of it while he had been unconscious. And he was helpless, a log--while over in England Norah and his father were, perhaps, already mourning him as dead. His thoughts travelled to Billabong, where Brownie and Murty O'Toole and the others kept the home ready for them all, working with the love that makes nothing a toil, and planning always for the great day that should bring them all back. He pictured the news arriving--saw Brownie's dismayed old face, and heard her cry of incredulous pain. And there was nothing he could do. It seemed unbelievable that such things could be, in a sane world. But then, the world was no longer sane; it had gone mad nearly two years before, and he was only one of the myriad atoms caught into the swirl of its madness.

The _cure_ came again, presently, and saw his troubled face. ”You are in pain, my son?”

”No--I'm all right if I keep quiet,” Jim answered. ”But it's my people. Callaghan says you will try to let them know, Father.”