"In the ankle," he said; "can you do anything?"

"I'll have a look in a minute."

I examined the man who was hit in the thigh and discovered two
tourniquets had been applied made out of a handkerchief and bits of
stick to twist them up. But the blood was now pumping steadily from
both wounds and soaking its way into the sandy soil. I tightened them
up, but it was useless. There was no stopping the loss of blood.

All the time little groups of British went straggling past--hurrying
back towards the bay--retreating.

It was impossible to leave my wounded. I helped the cheerful man to
hop near a willow thicket, and there I took off his boot and found a
clean bullet wound right through the ankle-bone of the left foot. It
was bleeding slowly and the man was very pale.

"Been bleeding long?" I asked.

"About half an hour I reckon. Is it all right, mate?"

"Yes. It's a clean wound."

I plugged each hole, padded it and bound it up tightly. I had a look
at the other man, who was still bleeding and had lost consciousness
altogether.

It was a race for life. Which to attend to? Both men were still