"Ah! And then, too," he added, emptying--as politeness requires--the
drop of wine that remained at the bottom of Farfadet's cup, "we got
two Boches. They were crawling about outside, and fell into our
holes, as blindly as moles into a spring snare, those chaps did. We
tied 'em up. And see us then--after firing for thirty-six hours,
we'd no more ammunition. So we filled our magazines with the last,
and waited, in front of the parcels of Boche. The liaison chap
forgot to tell his people that we were there. You, the 6th, forgot
to ask for us; the 18th forgot us, too; and as we weren't in a
listening-post where you're relieved as regular as if at H.Q., I
could almost see us staying there till the regiment came back. In
the long run, it was the loafers of the 204th, come to skulk about
looking for fuses, that mentioned us. So then we got the order to
fall back--immediately, they said. That 'immediately' was a good
joke, and we got into harness at once. We untied the legs of the
Boches, led them off and handed them over to the 204th, and here we
are."

"We even fished out, in passing, a sergeant who was piled up in a
hole and didn't dare come out, seeing he was shell-shocked. We
slanged him, and that set him up a bit, and he thanked us. Sergeant
Sacerdote he called himself."

"But your wound, old chap?"

"It's my ears. Two shells, a little one and a big one, my lad--went
off while you're saying it. My head came between the two bursts, as
you might say, but only just; a very close shave, and my lugs got
it."