“Well, I’ll try to be,” assented Bob. “Where’s Ned?”
“Said he was going to see if he could get a bit of wood for a fire. But if he finds any, which isn’t likely, it’ll be as wet as a sponge after this rain. Suffering hand grenades! will it ever let up?” cried Jerry, for it was still pouring.
Simple preparations were going on for breakfast. There was no sign yet of any of the carriers with big kettles of hot coffee or soup, and it was evident that the commissary had not yet been reorganized since the last breakdown.
Afterward the boys learned that the reason for the failure of their supplies to arrive was due to the fact that their sector was temporarily cut off by an attempted flanking movement on the part of the Germans. The Americans were in greater danger than they knew, but, at the time, all they thought of was the lack of hot rations.
“Ned ought to come back,” remarked Jerry, as he and Bob prepared to eat. “He’ll be reported late, and this isn’t any time for that. I guess––”
But Jerry did not finish, for just then came a tremendous explosion, so close that for a moment he and Bob thought a Hun shell had been dropped in the dugout near which they were sitting under an improvised shelter.
Instantly the trench was a scene of feverish activity. Everyone expected a raid, and breakfast 121 was hastily set aside, while the soldiers caught up their guns.
“It’s all right,” an officer called. “Fritz just took a pot shot at one of our trucks out on the road.”
“Did he get it, Sir?” asked Jerry.
“I should say so! Look here!”