“Heavens! sir,” he croaked, “they can get through here.”
“Not by day,” answered the sapper. “The ground in front is enfiladed from higher up, and, as a matter of fact, they show no signs of advancing. The bombardment has failed.”
“Failed! Failed!” croaked Ainsworth, and he laughed hideously. “Rather—I noticed the failure.”
“Nevertheless, old chap, what I say is right. They’ve failed because they can’t advance.” He put his hand on Gerald’s arm for a moment. “They may try to make a small local advance to-night under cover of dark, but I don’t think we’ll be troubled till then. They won’t renew the bombardment, from what I know of ’em.” And with that he was gone.
And so Gerald gathered together the remnants of his platoon, and there were fifteen all told. He put them where he could and waited for the night, when, with another working party, the trenches could be built up to their proper shape again. And then he went and sat down again and wondered at life. Overhead the shells still screamed
