"WHEE-E-E-E-E-OU-O-O-O-O—BANG!"
Chester raised himself to a sitting position in his funk hole and looked over at Hal.
"Gosh all fishhooks! Looks like this was all a fake about the war being over at 11 o'clock this morning," he said. "Those shells don't sound like the end of the war to me. Do they to you?"
Hal admitted that they did not. The burst had almost covered both lads with earth and had been to close to allow either of them any peace of mind. "Down!" shouted Chester and again Hal rolled himself into a knot and wished that his funk hole was as many inches deeper. He had seen days when such a funk hole would have been sufficiently deep, but on that day of all days—half an hour before the end of the war—a forty-foot well wouldn't have been any too deep.
Hal's calculation was a bit off. The shell came whistling in, like the weird cry of a hungry beast, and exploded in the hollow below the funk holes in which Hal and Chester found themselves, throwing up a geyser of earth and rocks that did no harm to anyone.
"That guy's as wild as a hawk," came a cry from a nearby hole. "I could do better than that myself, and I ain't no artilleryman, either."
"You talk like you wanted him to shoot closer," Hal called back. "That was plenty close enough for me."
The next shell broke on the brow of the hill. Then came a whole shower of them, each one singing its own little tune that struck terror to the hearts of the bravest.
Chester squirmed down into his funk hole until he could see the dial of his wrist watch. It was 10.35. In twenty-five minutes more the war would be over.
A moment later American batteries behind them began sending over reprisal fire. The 75's passing over their heads whined savagely, but not so savagely as those boche shells coming in.