He had no plans; everything must depend upon chance and what the daylight showed him; and when the man on his right shook him and he rose to his feet, he saw that they were on the bank of a navigation canal.
Behind them the mist was curling from the water meadows of Picardy, and along the river tall poplars lifted their heads above the fog.
"Do you know what we are going to do, Kamerad?" he said to the much-wounded man.
"Die, I hope," was the response.
Circumstances had not unnaturally made him a pessimist.
The roll was being called, but the fog was so thick that one could hardly see the sergeant and his notebook; and keeping his lips tight, Dennis was overlooked, and nobody noticed it.
It so happened that the real Carl Heft belonged to another company, and was marked absent on duty at Divisional Headquarters.
There was a bread distribution, and Dennis got his share. It was black, but distinctly palatable, and was better than the coffee that was served out later on.
He knew the masquerade could not last for ever, and at kit inspection the moment he had been dreading came.
Luckily for him the sergeant was a good-humoured fellow, although he opened his eyes with a start when he saw that the boyish-looking private in front of him had no belts.