"The moles have got nothing on us," remarked Tom, as he noted the vast extent of these subterranean passages.
"It's like the catacombs of Rome," put in Billy. "The only difference is that those contain dead men while we're very much alive."
"Knock wood," counseled Bart. "We wouldn't be very long if the Boches had their way."
Along the side of the main trench, facing the enemy was a narrow platform on which the men stood who were on watch. A series of cunningly contrived loopholes enabled them to look over at the enemy trenches without themselves being seen.
Sand bags were piled on the top of the trench in numbers sufficient to stop the flight of a bullet or even the impact of a shell.
A series of steps led up to the top and the boys reflected as they looked at them that before long their feet would be planted there when the order should be given to go "over the top" and charge across the intervening space to meet the enemy.
The silent men standing on watch, gripping their muskets, their eyes peering through the loopholes, seemed like so many statues.
Each had his gas mask ready to clap on at an instant's notice, for when that deadly poison should be wafted over the trench, one second of time might mean all the difference between life and death.
Before the day was over Frank and his comrades had replaced this line of sentinels. They peered curiously across to the German trench from which they were separated by not more than two hundred yards.
There was absolutely nothing to be seen except the line of sand bags that they knew marked the positions of the enemy. Nothing broke the monotonous expanse of shell-torn earth.