And slowly, but surely, that day was coming. Hour by hour, almost, the great army of Americans was growing in France. Inch by inch the detested Huns were being pushed back, fighting stubbornly at every step. Skirmishes and small battles were frequent, and trench raids took place on both sides nearly every night.
It was one nasty, rainy night about a week after Jimmy had received the news that Franz was a prisoner that, as the four Khaki Boys were on duty in a firing trench, word was passed along to be more than usually on the alert.
"Why? Are we going to attack?" asked Bob of the platoon officer.
"We may, if things turn out a certain way," was the answer. "We have made certain plans which will be disclosed in due time. Just be on the alert."
And, taking their turns at being "observation sentinels," Jimmy and his chums strained their eyes as they looked across dark and rainy No Man's Land for the first sign of any activity on the part of the Germans.
There was a tense feeling in the air, as though something portended, and this feeling had a basis in fact, for shortly before dawn the German batteries suddenly opened fire on the line of trenches held by Jimmy, his chums, and others of the 509th.
"Are we going over the top?" cried Bob, as, by the distant flashes of fire from the German guns, he saw their platoon officer. It was safe to talk, or even shout, now, for there was no danger of giving an alarm to the Huns. "Are we going over the top?"
"Not in the face of that fire, at all events," was the grim answer. "The Boches have started the ball in earnest."
Every second the blasts from the German guns increased in intensity, and their effect was felt in the trench that sheltered the Khaki Boys.
"What's the matter with our artillery?" cried Jimmy. "Why don't they give Fritz some of his own medicine?"