The righteous indignation of Major Kemp, who is situated somewhere about the middle of the procession, reaches its culminating point when, with much struggling and pushing and hopeless jamming, a stretcher carrying a wounded man is borne down the crowded trench on its way to the rear.  The Major delivers himself.

“This is perfectly monstrous!  You stretcher-bearers will kill that poor chap if you try to drag him down here.  There is a specially constructed road to the dressing-station over there—­Bart’s Alley, it is called.  We cannot have up-and-down traffic jumbled together like this.  For heaven’s sake, Waddell, pass up word to the C.O. that it is mistaken kindness to allow these fellows down here.  He must send them back.”

Waddell volunteers to climb out of the trench and go forward with a message.  But this the Major will not allow.  “Your platoon will require a leader presently,” he mentions.  “We’ll try the effect of a note.”

The note is passed up, and anon an answer comes back to the effect that no wounded have been allowed down from the head of the column.  They must be getting in by a sidetrack somewhere.  The Major groans, but can do nothing.

Presently there is a fresh block.

“What is it this time?” inquires the afflicted Kemp.  “More wounded, or are we being photographed?”

The answer races joyously down the line—­“Gairman prisoners, sirr—­seeventy of them!”

This time the Major acts with promptness and decision.

“Prisoners?  No, they don’t! Pass up word from me that the whole boiling are to be hoisted on to the parapet, with their escort, and made to walk above ground.”

The order goes forward.  Presently our hearts are rejoiced by an exhilarating sight.  Across the field through which our trench winds comes a body of men, running rapidly, encouraged to further fleetness of foot by desultory shrapnel and stray bullets.  They wear grey-green uniform, and flat, muffin-shaped caps.  They have no arms or equipment:  some are slightly wounded.  In front of this contingent, running even more rapidly, are their escort—­some dozen brawny Highlanders, armed to the teeth.  But the prisoners exhibit no desire to take advantage of this unusual order of things.  Their one ambition in life appears to be to put as large a space as possible between themselves and their late comrades-in-arms, and, if possible, overtake their captors.

Some of them find time to grin, and wave their hands to us.  One addresses the scandalised M’Slattery as “Kamarad!” “No more dis war for me!” cries another, with unfeigned satisfaction.

After this our progress is more rapid.  As we near the front line, the enemy’s shrapnel reaps its harvest even in our deep trench.  More than once we pass a wounded man, hoisted on to the parapet to wait for first-aid.  More than once we step over some poor fellow for whom no first-aid will avail.