I nod. “Yes, Kat, we ought to put him out of his misery.”

He stands still a moment. He has made up his mind. We look round⁠—but we are no longer alone. A little group is gathering, from the shell-holes and trenches appear heads.

We get a stretcher.

Kat shakes his head. “Such a kid⁠—” He repeats it. “Young innocents⁠—”

Our losses are less than was to be expected⁠—five killed and eight wounded. It was in fact quite a short bombardment. Two of our dead lie in the upturned graves. We merely throw the earth in on them.

We go back. We trot off silently in single file one behind the other. The wounded are taken to the dressing-station. The morning is cloudy. The bearers make a fuss about numbers and tickets, the wounded whimper. It begins to rain.