“Mince! That’s not going to be easy. One might be able to manage it at night, but by day ... that’s going to be a real bird trap.”
“What! What! What’s to stop your sticking your melinite sausage in that doghouse? Lend me your peephole. I’m going to see how it stands.”
It was Grizard mixing in the conversation; he had already taken the two bombs from the engineer’s hands, which he let go with evident satisfaction.
“We ought to put one in each end of the buffet. Don’t worry, Lieutenant. That’s a fine job and will be well done.”
Grizard turns to his companion Marseille who is draining his two litre canteen without trouble.
“Oh, there, you. This will be a fine chance for a ballad. We’re going to play a trick on our neighbor opposite.”
And then, as Marseille gave his opinion only by a look without letting go the neck of his canteen:
“Come, leave some until we get back. We’ll be thirsty.”
The two volunteers got ready for their expedition at once. They each took a bomb and put it in their jacket pockets; protected their heads by a shield which they pushed ahead, and climbed up the bank, crawled under the barbed wire, and disappeared in the shell holes.