“We'll all be killed, that's all there is about it.”
“There are no shelters or dugouts,” drawled the major from the window. “That's Headquarters' fault.”
“There's the cellar!” cried the eager voice, again.
“Oh,” said the major.
Three snorting explosions in quick succession drowned everything in a red glare. The street was suddenly filled with a scuttle of villagers running to shelter.
“Say, Andy, they may have a roll call,” said Chrisfield.
“We'd better cut for home across country,” said Andrews.
They climbed cautiously out of their manure pit. Chrisfield was surprised to find that he was trembling. His hands were cold.
It was with difficulty he kept his teeth from chattering.
“God, we'll stink for a week.”