Clem looked about him, for misery loves company. There were wide gaps in the line, though that was anything but comforting. It was horribly depressing to think that some of these cronies, jolly good fellows all, would now be dumped under the sod, and that others were never more to walk, nor to know the joy of health. Perhaps some would never see nor hear again. Many less seriously injured would bear scars all their lives.
Martin there, formerly next in line to Giddings, and now next to Clem, had his head elaborately done up in two-inch bandages. Replying to a question he said, jovially:
“When I get back to God’s country, I am going to take this old pan of a hat, hang it up in the prettiest place in the best room in the house and keep it covered with fresh flowers. Why? The darned old thing saved my life. I wouldn’t ’a’ had any bean left if this inverted wash basin thing hadn’t been covering it.”
“Poor Giddings always had a pick at his helmet,” remarked Clem. “He used to say that just a hat wasn’t much good and that what a man wants in this war is a suit of armor made out of stove plates. In his case he was about right.”
“But wrong in mine,” said Martin.
“Say, what’s doing, Sarge?” asked a private of the non-com in the next squad, who now stood next to Clem in the line-up.
“The Heinies are going to make a push here, I believe,” was the answer.
“When?”
“Pretty soon. Guess we’ll hear the barrage laid down first. But maybe they think they’re strong enough to rush us without that.”
“Hope they do. It’s more lively. I don’t like them barrages. Make me think o’ my old uncle across the pond. He’s one o’ those bear hunters. Sez he’d a heap rather fight a bear than a hive o’ bees; you can see the bear.”