They came down to our dried-up water-course and tried to sleep; but
they were past sleep. They kept dozing off and waking up with a start
and muttering--

". . . All gone . . . killed . . . where? where? No, no . . . No! . .
. don't move . . . (mumble-mumble) . . . keep still . . . idiot!
you'll get shot . . . can you see them? Eh? where? . . . he's dying,
dying . . . stop the bleeding, man! He's dying . . . we're all dying .
. . no water . . . drink . . ."

I've seen men, healthy, strong, hard-faced Irishmen, blown to shreds.
I've helped to clear up the mess. I've trod on dead men's chests in
the sand, and the ribs have bent in and the putrid gases of decay have
burst through with a whhh-h-ff-f.

But I'd rather have to deal with the dead and dying than a case of
"sniper-madness."

I was just recovering from that attack of fever and dysentery, and
these two were lying beside me; the one mumbling and the other panting
in a fitful sleep.

When they were questioned they could give very little information.

"Where's Lieutenant S---?"

". . . Gone . . . they're all gone . . ."

"How far did you go with him?"