The German bombardment, hitherto directed against the batteries far to the rear, began to draw forward. It approached the rear of the trenches where the dug-out for the telephone was situated.
"Afraid?" the officer asked Horace.
"Yes," the boy answered, "but game!"
A shell fell a dozen yards away. The burst smashed in the roof of the dug-out. A flying piece of concrete grazed the officer's cheek. It bled freely.
"Hit, sir?" the boy asked anxiously.
"Nothing! My cheek!"
He telephoned an order.
The Moroccans, unwillingly, take cover in a shelter-trench. They dislike the underground, but it is no use to stand and be shot down uselessly.
Bombs and grenades fall like a hail of fire.