The fresh dead pointed to the same conclusion.

What he had got through were the Turkish support trenches, not their firing-line.

That was still before him.
He didn't despair, for the rebound from panic had made him extra courageous.

He crawled forward, an inch at a time, taking no sort of risk, and presently found himself looking at the parados of a trench.
Then he lay quiet to think out the next step.
The shelling had stopped, and there was that queer kind of peace which falls sometimes on two armies not a quarter of a mile distant.

Peter said he could hear nothing but the far-off sighing of the wind.