"The Germans have taken us," said a second voice. "We—"
His voice stopped and choked. It was stilled forever, Chester knew.
He could not see—he had extinguished his light.
A revolver was fired in his face, but the bullet went over him. He pressed to one side of the tunnel as he pushed back, and the next bullet went into the sand where he had been. He was back under the beams; and the Germans, choking, fired no more.
Someone pulled at his leg. Someone jerked him out and pulled him up—it was Hal.
"The people in there were taken," said Chester quietly. "They—"
"You've still got your grenades," said Hal. "I've got mine. We can do it alone, with luck!"
The Germans, working on the tunnel off to the left, yelled at each other to jump for cover, for the French shells were coming again. They burst all about—except now, just ahead, where Hal and Chester were running. Two minutes they had to run and crawl and run again across the square, three minutes for the next one. Then, again, they parted. Two squares to the left, two minutes for one, three for the next—Hal was to go; two squares to the right—for three minutes and two the French fire was to be remitted—Chester must travel. There were two other small squares to be spared for five minutes to provide for help which might have been gained from the refugees' dugout.
Those squares were being spared now, anyway.
But the minutes of respite for all were finishing fast.
It was five minutes to 10 o'clock and Chester, running bent over, stumbled and fell; the frightful concussion of great high explosive shells, bursting close to him, shook and battered him. He hugged down into a hole, and from about his neck, he drew a flat bag, which held a gas mask; he adjusted it quickly. Shells were striking about him, which did not break; but from the butts of these fumes were floating. The Germans, showing in the light of the star-shells, had become snouted creatures in their gas helmets.