FROM THE HILLThe rifleman, whose name was Tom Stackpole, found that if he lay perfectly still his wounds no longer hurt quite so much. He was not at all sure that it was a good sign. The officer, whose injuries were far worse, had seemed uncannily at peace with himself since Tom had first tumbled over the rim of the shell-hole to join him, dragging his ruined leg behind him.
“I believe I’m done for, Tom,” the officer had said to him, with a reckless disregard for the proper form of address, almost immediately after introducing himself as Captain Desmond Campion, Royal Field Artillery. Tom suspected that the officer might actually have offered his hand to be shaken if it had not been so busy playing with something Tom could not quite make out.
“I believe you are, sir,” would have been the
