I shot him with the repeating pistol that had once been Tugendheim's--this one, see, sahib--and believing the camp was now ours and the fighting over, I lay down and dragged his body over me to save me from hailstones, that had made me ache already in every inch of my body.

I rolled under and pulled the body over in one movement; and seeing the body and thinking a Turk was crawling up to attack him, one of our troopers thrust his bayonet clean through it.
It was a goodly thrust, delivered by a man who prided himself on being workmanlike.

If the Turk had not been a fat one I should not be here.

Luckily, I had chosen one whose weight made me grunt, and because of his thickness the bayonet only pierced an inch or two of my thigh.
I yelled and kicked the body off me.

The trooper made as if to use the steel again, thinking we were two Turks, and my pointing a pistol at him only served to confirm the belief.