An hour later they returned, wet through, covered with mud, and accusing each other of being milksops, cowards, and using various other complimentary epithets, such as only the Flemish language can render with sufficient emphasis. Frentzen's pocket had been pierced by a bullet. Snysters had had one through his cap. A minute or two later, Snysters went out of the room and Frentzen came a few steps nearer and remarked, confidentially:
"Lieutenant, Snysters, he doesn't know what it means to be afraid of anything, but he's a bit...."
Frentzen winked and touched his own forehead.
"You understand, Lieutenant."
"Yes, yes, I know him well."
Frentzen went away and when Snysters came back, he drew his chair up and remarked:
"Lieutenant, that Frentzen's a chap with plenty of nerve, but," hereupon he tapped his forehead with a knowing expression, "a bit touched here, you know."
"Yes, yes, I know...."
A little while later, they went off again, arm in arm, insulting each other more than ever, but on the lookout for fresh adventures.
The bombardment recommenced at an early hour. It began with volleys of 77's, those miserable, ridiculous 77's. They come along as though they are going to smash everything before them, and they finish with a poor little "petch" and a bit of pipe smoke.