"Bully for you, Dalton, old scout, for thinking of it," said one of the lads who had demanded pie. "We're crazy for something like that. It'll be like a little bit of home."
"Or Ireland!" suggested a quiet looking lad.
Then someone started to sing a popular song. They all joined in, and the cook, with a look of relief on his face, hastened back to the rude shelter that served for a kitchen and began to prepare the prune slump.
It was a great success, and the name of Bob Dalton was long remembered among his associates who partook of the concoction, for it was just that, being, as one lad remarked, about as unknown a mixture as a beef stew. But it was good. They all voted that.
It was dark when Jimmy, Roger, Bob and Iggy went on duty up to one of the front trenches. They were on a sector where activity might break out at any moment, and there was need for great alertness.
Jimmy and Roger, assigned to one platoon, were to take turns doing sentry duty in one traverse, while Iggy and Bob were sent to another near by.
Jimmy took his place on the fire step, and there he would stand until relieved, never taking his eyes from that grim stretch of dark earth in front of him, called "No Man's Land." On the other side of it were the German trenches, and from them, at any moment, might issue the Boche fighters in a raid.
Roger crouched as comfortably as he could at Jimmy's feet, ready to transmit to the platoon officer any information which Jimmy might whisper to him, loud talking being forbidden.
The night, however, seemed destined to be quiet. Up and down, to Jimmy's right and left, stretched the narrow strip of No Man's Land. Directly in front of the American trenches was barbed wire, fantastically tangled on posts leaning every which way. In front of the German trenches was more wire, similarly twisted. This wire was to stop a sudden rush in either direction.
In the silence and darkness of the night the Khaki Boys kept watch and ward to guard against surprise. Doubtless, the same watch was kept on the German side.