“I hate this waiting business,” Phil declared. “We’ll never reach Berlin at this rate.”
“So do I,” responded Tim. “I wonder what those minions of the kaiser think they’re going to do. To my mind it’s a sign of weakness on their part, making a drive this time o’ the day.”
“Why?” Phil inquired. “I don’t see why it should be a sign of weakness on their part any more than our plan to go over the top at 4:30 is a sign of weakness.”
“Maybe not from their point of view. But we know what we’ve got behind us—millions of men and billions of money. We know, too, that we’ve got vastly more of these than the boches have. So you see, I have something more than suspicion to base my theory on that they like to make an attack late in the day so that if they fail they will have the darkness to cover their retreat. I bet that when our record is summed up you’ll find that we made most of our dashes against the enemy’s lines at 4 or 5 o’clock in the morning.”
“I hope I’m spared to contemplate such a record,” said Phil soberly.
“You don’t doubt it, do you?” Tim asked, for he was surprised and disappointed to hear his friend speak so diffidently.
“I was just wondering,” Phil replied meditatively.
“See here, Phil,” Tim said, shaking his hand toward his soldier comrade; “you’re making a big mistake. You’re meditating. Do you realize that a soldier should never meditate? He should never even think twice. He’s got to do his best thinking the first time.”
“What’s that got to do with my wondering whether I’m going to come out o’ this alive?” Phil inquired.
“It’s got this to do with it: It’s as bad as writing poetry in a trench. I think you’ll agree with me that anybody that does that is a nut. Now, I don’t believe I’m going to have my head blown off. Notice that I don’t say, ‘I don’t let myself think I’m going to be killed.’ I’m dead sure I’m not going to be killed. Get me?—dead sure; not sure dead.”