reported some time ago from a listenpost in the dead area."
The chief of staff pointed to the outline formed by the red glows where tanks were battling.
"Those fights are keeping up too long!" he said sharply. "General, don't you see, they're driving back our line, but they aren't driving it back as fast as if they were throwing their whole weight on it! If they were making a frontal attack there, they'd wipe out the tanks we have facing them; they'd roll right over them! That's a feint! They're concentrating in the dead space—"
"I am waiting," said the general softly, "to hear from those two infantrymen." He looked at the board again and said quietly, "Have the call-signal sent them. They may answer."
He struck a match to relight his dead cigar. His fingers barely quivered as they held the match. It might have been excitement—but it might have been foreboding, too.
"By the way," he said, holding the match clear, "have our machine-shops and supply-tanks read to move. Every plane is, of course, ready to take the air on signal. But get the aircraft ground personnel in their traveling tanks immediately."
Voices began to murmur orders as the general puffed. He watched the board steadily.
"Let me know if anything is heard from these infantrymen. ..."
THERE was a definite air of strain within the tank that was headquarters. It was a sort of tensity that seemed to emanate from the general himself.
Where Coffee and Wallis and the prisoner squatted on the ground, however, there was no sign of strain at all. There was a steady gabble of voices.
"What kinda rations they give you?" asked Coffee interestedly.
The enemy prisoner listed them, with profane side-comments.
"Hell," said Wallis gloomily. "Y'ought to see what we get! Las' week they fed us worse'n dogs. An' th' canteen stuff—"
"Your tank men, they get treated fancy?" asked the prisoner.
Coffee made a reply consisting almost exclusively of high powered expletives.
"—and the infantry gets it in the neck every time," he finished savagely. "We do the work—"
Guns began to boom, far away. Wallis cocked his ears.
"Tanks gettin' together," he judged, gloomily. "If they'd all blow each other to hell an' let us infantry fight this battle—"
"Damn the tanks!" said the enemy prisoner viciously. "Look here, you fellers. Look at me. They sent a battalion of us out, in two waves. We hike along by compass through the fog, supposed to be five paces apart. We come on a pill-box or listenin' post, we gas it an' go on. We try not to make a noise. We try not to get seen before we use our gas. We go on, deep in your lines as we can. We hear one of your tanks, we dodge it if we can, so we don't get seen at all. O'course we give it a dose of gas in passing, just in case. But we don't get any orders about how far to go or how to come back. We ask for recognition signals for our own tanks, an' they grin an' say we won't see none of our tanks till the battle's over. They say 'Re-form an' march back when the fog is out.' Ain't that pretty for you ?"
"You second wave?" asked Coffee, with interest.
The prisoner nodded.
"Mopping up," he said bitterly, "what the first wave left. No fun in that! We go along gassin' dead men, an' all the time your tanks is ravin' around to find out what's happenin' to their listenin'-posts. They run into us—"
Coffee nodded sympathetically.
"The infantry always gets the dirty end of the stick," said Wallis morosely.
