On the evening of the eighth day came the news that the present contingent of Khaki Boys occupying the front-line trench were to be relieved by a seasoned American regiment under the command of a veteran French general. The retiring troops were to start at eleven o'clock that night for rest billets in a village well behind the lines. Here they would remain for at least three weeks before returning to the trenches.
Just before eleven o'clock the first relief detachment crept stealthily into the fire trench. They had been hiding all day in a pine woods just out of range of the German guns. Another detachment was concealed in the ruined village through which the Khaki Boys had passed on the way to the trenches. This detachment would not arrive at the front until after midnight.
The departing Sammies were ordered to make an absolutely noiseless retreat to rest billets. It was vitally important that the enemy should not learn of the arrival of fresh troops to replace the men who had completed their first trench detail.
Passing with his comrades through a communication trench on the opposite from the one used on the night of entering the trenches, it seemed to Jimmy Blaise a very long time since then. It was more like eight years than eight days.
What a lot a fellow could stand in eight days and still live, was his somber reflection as he stole along, six paces behind the man in front of him. He had been under heavy fire twice. He had looked upon death in its bloodiest form. He had slept and eaten with the shattered, lifeless bodies of his comrades lying about him. He had waded through blood, so to speak. He had been across No Man's Land and back. Men had died in his arms. He had endured agonies of suspense as he searched among the slain for his bunkies. Worst of all, he had lost a devoted friend and Brother.
"It's a great life if you don't weaken." Jimmy smiled grimly to himself as this expression, so prevalent among the Sammies, popped into his mind. Back in Camp Sterling he, too, had been very prone to use it. He was still of the opinion that, in spite of blood, mud, death, wounds, noise, cooties and the hundred and one other vicissitudes of war, it was "a great life."
He hoped that he would be spared to do trench duty over and over again. That was the only way a fellow could feel about it, he thought. He was glad that he hated the Boches so hard. Back in Camp Sterling he had often wondered how it would feel to be actually engaged in killing men. Now he hoped that, for the sake of Franz Schnitzel, every bullet he had sent speeding across No Man's Land had put a Hun out of business for good and all.