Even the big man in the hairy waistcoat could not fail to be in sympathy with the suggestion. If he had, a glance out through the door of the dug-out would have soon satisfied him. The light was now stronger. The mist was clearing. On every side Germans could be seen, while behind them, where there had been British support-lines before, was now the fierce rattle of machine-guns and of trench mortars. Across what had been "No-Man's-Land" streamed columns of Germans, some marching in good order, others trapesing over the ground dragging every sort of war material. There were detached bands, too, marching hither and thither, and halting unexpectedly. They were searching for the hidden caches of British soldiers, cut off by this sudden advance, and for dug-outs.
"Hold hard!" said Bill. "You chaps wait down here. Larry and Jim come along up with me. I'm going to post a sentry over our show," he said, when they had gained the curtain and were able to peep out. "Perhaps we'll get a chance."
"A chance!" said Larry, scratching his head—"a chance to place a sentry! You mean a chance to get hold of some togs in which to rig one of us up. That's a fine idea, Bill, but it would mean shooting if we were discovered."
"Not if the sentry's a real German," grinned Bill. "You know what I mean—a real stout, floppy German!"
"A real stout—— Here, what are you getting at!" cried Jim, and he too was grinning.
As for Larry, as one might expect, he merely cocked his hat a little farther forward, fumbled automatically for the stump of his cigar, and scrutinized the smiling Bill from the top of his tin hat to his thick boots.
"Look here, me lad, this 'ere fat, floppy German," he said. "What are you after? Gee, lad, but—but I do believe——"
"Hist! Sit down! Let the blanket drop! There are men there, fat and floppy," whispered Bill, pulling them both back well into the entrance, and seeing that the curtain was carefully lowered. Then, pushing it aside with a single finger, he bid them in turn peer out.
A shattered hedge ran not far from the opening to the dug-out, masking the entrance to some extent. A bank, too, obstructed the approach to it, and bordered a sunken road, which no doubt at one time had been a feature of the village situated just there. But the village had gone long since. High-explosive shells had churned the ground in all directions, had torn the pleasant dwellings of the villagers to shreds, had lacerated the trees and broken them on every side, had even turned water-courses, by bursting in their channels, and, having dug deep holes and pits in all directions and flattened every prominence known by the residents, had transformed the country thereabouts, and indeed for miles and miles on either hand, into a vast disordered desert.
Yet this one feature remained—a narrow, sunken cart track, passing along beside a bank which gave it shelter, perhaps, from the desolating action of the shells—a bank which was seamed and furrowed by the spades of men who had dug deep into it for shelter. It harboured amongst those many cavities the entrance to this dug-out. As for the lane itself, it harboured at this particular moment a German—a big, lumbering man, whose steel helmet seemed so huge that it covered his head as an extinguisher covers a candle. He was plodding along towards the dug-out, perhaps some two hundred yards distant from it, his eyes upon the ground, his weary feet moving heavily, his rifle over one shoulder.