“No, seventeen.”
Hicks whistled and again exchanged looks with Claude. They could neither of them doubt him. There was something very unpleasant about the idea of a thousand fresh-faced schoolboys being sent out against the guns. “It must have been a fool order,” he commented. “Suppose there was some mistake at Headquarters?”
“Oh, no, Headquarters knew what it was about! We’d have taken it, if we’d had any sort of luck. But the Hun happened to be full of fight. His machine guns did for us.”
“You were hit yourself?” Claude asked him.
“In the leg. He was popping away at me all the while, but I wriggled back on my tummy. When I came out of the hospital my leg wasn’t strong, and there’s less marching in the artillery.
“I should think you’d have had about enough.”
“Oh, a fellow can’t stay out after all his chums have been killed! He’d think about it all the time, you know,” the boy replied in his clear treble.
Claude and Hicks got into Headquarters just as the cooks were turning out to build their fires. One of the Corporals took them to the officers’ bath,—a shed with big tin tubs,—and carried away their uniforms to dry them in the kitchen. It would be an hour before the officers would be about, he said, and in the meantime he would manage to get clean shirts and socks for them.
“Say, Lieutenant,” Hicks brought out as he was rubbing himself down with a real bath towel, “I don’t want to hear any more about those Pal Battalions, do you? It gets my goat. So long as we were going to get into this, we might have been a little more previous. I hate to feel small.”
