Every one who saw the heavy steel hat so neatly pierced by the swift bullet was impressed by the object lesson, as the lieutenant had intended all of them should be. But, somehow or other, Bob Baker seemed more fascinated than either of his chums, and, indeed, more than any other member of that particular relief squad.
“Did a Hun bullet do that?” asked Bob, as he picked up the head protector and looked at the hole.
“That’s what it did, my boy,” answered the officer. “And that’s what will happen to you, or any one else, if you stick your head up above the trench.”
“And the Huns did that!” murmured Bob, who seemed not to be able to efface from his mind the picture of the punctured, spinning helmet. “Then we’re right within range of their fire.”
“Considerably so,” answered the lieutenant. “In places the German trenches are only six hundred feet away, and that’s nothing for the modern rifle. It can kill at over a mile.” 89
“So, Chunky,” observed Jerry, “you’ve been under fire now.”
“Yes,” said Bob, and his voice was sober, “we’ve been under fire.”
“Of course this isn’t anything!” the lieutenant exclaimed with a laugh, as he kicked aside the bullet-punctured helmet Bob had dropped. “This is just a little byplay. You’ll be under heavier fire than this, but don’t worry. It takes a good many bullets to get a man. However, don’t think of that. Do your duty. That’s what you’re here for!”
The lieutenant looked somewhat anxiously into the faces of the relief squad he was to command. Every officer likes to know that he has the bravest of men in the army, and this young officer was no exception. The firing line where the Motor Boys now were—the front-line trenches—was no place for cowards.
But the faces that looked back into the young lieutenant’s gave no reflection of fear. And at this he breathed in relief. There was puzzled wonder on the countenance of some, and grim determination on others, and this last was what counted.