So desperate and sudden had been the attack of the Americans that, after the first resistance, the Germans gave way and ran back, jumping down into the trenches whence they had come.
The raiding party asked nothing better than to follow, and for a time pursued the Huns along their own trenches, the bursting star shells above giving light enough to see.
“Are you there—Ned—Bob?” demanded Jerry, as he ran on, following the tortuous line of the trench.
“I’m here!” answered Ned.
“So’m I,” added Bob. “Haven’t a shot left, though.”
“Here, take these,” and Jerry handed over some spare grenades he had in a pouch slung at his back. “Don’t pot any of our men, though. Some are ahead of us.”
On ran the Motor Boys, and in another moment they came to the dugout—a pretentious affair of concrete, now well lighted, for the alarm of the attack had spread. 105
One of the raiding party threw a hand grenade inside the structure. There was a powerful explosion, not enough, indeed, to wreck the stout place, but sufficient to send the inmates scurrying out—what were left of them.
“Kamerad! Kamerad!” some of the wounded ones cried, and others held up their hands.
“Come on!” shouted the lieutenant. “Gather ’em in and let’s get back. This place is getting too hot for us.”