“Well, how’s that a sign? A sign of what?” Tom broke in.
“Why,” explained Ollie, “I believe it’s a sort of a forecast of this new drive we’re going into, and for that matter the whole war. Some of us may and will get hurt, but we’re going to stick at it until we win, and we’re going to make the quickest possible job of it.”
“Bravo!” exclaimed Tom, “Only in our case we’re not going to invite the enemy over our lines to do it. We’re going to carry the fight to him.”
“You’re right,” added Harper, “and this looks as if it’s not many hours off.”
He pointed to a long string of motor trucks bearing pioneers, engineers, snipers, wire-cutters—the forerunners of a battle in which preliminary difficulties must be overcome.
Tom looked at his wrist watch. It was 6.16 and the sun was just setting. Darkness would soon enclose that part of France in the cloak of night—and it was upon the eve of the fourth anniversary of German-established St. Mihiel saliant!
“Not long is right,” he said, reminiscently.
And Harper added, while Ollie nodded his head in assent:
“We’ll soon be ready to go.”