Captain Dearden was dead; his mouth open in a soundless scream to protest at the agony of the Russian bayonet which protruded obscenely from his belly. Corporal O"Hara lay across Dearden"s body, writhing as he stared at the gaping holes in his chest and the blood that pumped from the ragged stump of his left arm. Beside him, Aitken crouched, choking on the blood that filled his mouth and ran in dark rivulets down his chin and chest. Half a score Russian infantrymen lay among them, shot or bayoneted, unheeded in death as the world had neglected them in life.
"Get the bodies," Jack ordered. "Pile them up into the breastwork."
The men stared at him. Their eyes were dazed, their mouths slack with shock, but they did as he ordered, adding the corpses of friends and enemies to the low barricad
