“There go our guns again!” cried Ned into Jerry’s ear, as he lay stretched out beside his tall chum.
“Yes. They’re trying to drive the Huns back so we can go on. We’ve got to get farther than this.”
The battle was now one of longer range, the first fierceness of the infantry having spent itself. Indeed, the men were practically out of ammunition, though a reserve stock was being rushed to them under the cover of the American guns.
A considerable space, corresponding to No Man’s Land, separated the two lines, and over the heads of the prostrate men flew the shells of their respective batteries. So, for the time being, except 144 for stray shooting of rifles and machine guns, the two confronting lines of infantry were comparatively safe.
It was during this lull that Bob, looking back from where he was sheltered by a little hill of earth and stones, uttered a cry.
“What’s the matter?” asked Jerry quickly. “Are you hit, Chunky?”
“Hit? No! But look there! Fried holes! See ’em!”
For an instant both Ned and Jerry thought that Bob had been seriously hurt, and was out of his head. But they looked to where he pointed and saw a man in the uniform of the Salvation Army coming across the ground over which the Americans had recently stormed. And the intrepid noncombatant carried on either arm a big basket of a type well known to our American fighters.
“Fried holes!” cried Bob. “Fried holes! Salvation Army doughnuts, fellows! I’m going to get some!”