The squad had been but five days in the gun pit so far, and it seemed like twice that many weeks. There had been the almost incessant hammering of the big gun on the trenches and distant works of the enemy and at the airplanes venturing overhead, four of which it had brought down in this time, added to three others since the long-barreled wonder had been set in place. It had been a surprise to the enemy and a masterly bit of work to place these several weapons in such close proximity to the enemy's lines and the duty had fallen upon well-picked troops and expert riflemen to guard these guns.
There had been the constant sniping, night and day, by successive numbers of the sharpshooters' squad. There had been fifty-seven men in the pit when Herbert came, his own included; now there were but fifty. Three lay in the graveyard beyond the hill; two were sick; two, badly wounded, had been taken by the last patrol to the base hospital at LaFleche. Besides these, nine altogether, mostly of the gun crew, had so-called trench feet, from standing long in cold water and mud and not caring immediately for the first consequences of frost bite.
But it was a very different matter from the impressive call to duty that bothered Herb Whitcomb. It was simply that he could not help feeling doubtful of one of his men.
When Martin Gaul had qualified for the snipers, with a very fair score at the rifle ranges, Herbert had frankly requested that he be assigned to another squad, but the officers making the drawings had refused this.
Before Gaul had been three days in the pit he had begun to grumble; once he had shown the white feather by remaining behind a nearly perfect shelter, instead of venturing out to hunt for enemy marksmen. And yesterday he had developed his old-time grouch and ready excuses.
Returning to the dugout, Herbert had found Gaul much better and even inclined to be facetious. Learning of McGuire's death, he had expressed no sorrow, as the others had done, or would do when they got in.
There had been all along a warm fraternal spirit shown among the members of the rifle squad, each one showing a generous sympathy for and an interest in his comrades, but Gaul had been the exception; by his own choice he had withdrawn from the human touch and brotherly affections naturally springing up between men living the same strenuous existence.
Was it a sense of impending danger that troubled Herbert this early night? Some materialistic philosophers tell us that there are no such things as premonitions, while others, perhaps wiser, insist that, logically, we possess a sort of sixth sense that is not always easy to analyze. Therefore, we may receive an impression and only half guess its meaning or hardly know that we have received it.
Herbert rose from his straw bed, pulled on his shoes and walked softly into the adjoining earthen chamber separated from that of the snipers' squad by a vertically cut mass of clay and a short partition of boards. He knew that the lieutenant labored therein over his reports, the small deal table lighted by a dim oil lantern.
The officer in command looked up quickly, but Herbert put his finger to his lips, even before saluting. Then he spoke in a whisper. "Do you sort of feel something in the air? I don't know what makes me feel that way, but——"