Orderlies brought water in artillery buckets; ward-masters passed swiftly to and fro; a soldier stood by a pile of severed limbs passing out bandages to assistants who swarmed around, scurrying hither and thither under the quiet orders of the medical directors.
A stretcher was brought; Colonel Arran opened his heavy lids as they placed him in it.

His eyes summoned Berkley.
"It's all right," he said in the ghost of a voice.

"Whichever way it turns put, it's all right.

.

.