Without haggling, the man passed the loaf of bread to the sergeant and the latter gave him his tobacco.
“Pretty high,” said the sergeant to himself, “but I’ve just naturally got to have something to eat.”
Congestion soon halted the line as the Americans advanced. Lured on by Sergeant Bowers’ action, hundreds of privates were able to make exchanges with French soldiers, and it took sharp orders from the officers to make them move on again.
Every now and then the marines came to a place where a shell had exploded in the road recently. At one place they came upon what had been five horses, and a part of another, and some blue helmets. These were dragged aside hastily.
Around 5 o’clock, Hal, who had gone to headquarters in a commandeered automobile, rejoined his regiment, which soon stopped for a rest. Sergeant Bowers dropped down in the ditch and eased his pack straps from the spots that ached. Hal went over to him.
“Sergeant,” said the lad, “have the men got emergency rations?”
“No, sir,” said Bowers.
“What?” exclaimed Hal. “Why haven’t they? Major Drew told me they had.”
“Well, they haven’t, sir,” repeated Bowers dryly. “I can vouch for that. I’ve had to pull up my belt a couple of notches.”
“Now, that’s pretty tough,” declared Hal. “But I am afraid it can’t be helped now, sergeant.”