ABSTRACT
We woke to a fine sunny morning, stiff and cold from having slept on the concrete floor in our uniforms without bedding. Carter, who must have been nearer fifty than thirty, stoically did not show the pain which must have been much worse for him than for those, like me, who were nearer eighteen than twenty. "What a rum smell", I said sniffing the sweet and rotten air. Carter drew in his breath through compressed lips and spat it out. The nearest, I thought, he ever gets to a smile. "Must be a corpse somewhere—that's what that smell means." We hunted vainly, four or five of us when that many had woken. "It's not a Boche—they stink; not the rotten sweet smell." 'In death they were not divided'—much. We could not find it so we had to endure it till we moved off two days later.
