"Whew, that was some fight!"
"I say de same by you, Bobby!"
It was Iggy who made the last remark and Bob Dalton who spoke first. They had swept on with their companions in arms, crashing their way through the German lines, and now the order had come to cease firing. It would not do for too large a number of the cheering, victorious Americans to get beyond the protection of their big guns, and this was likely if they rushed on much farther.
"Got any water in your can, Iggy?" went on Bob, as they sat, or rather, "flopped," down on the ground, exhausted, as were their comrades. "If you haven't any, I have some I'll share with you."
"I have some quiteness of vodah—I mean wat-ter—left," said Iggy. "Und jolly much goot will she taste now."
"You said something, pal!" declared a wounded soldier near by. "Some Fritzie put a slug through my canteen, and there isn't a drop in it, and I'm as dry as a boneless herring."
"Here!" cried Bob, instantly offering his water flask. "Take as much as you want. I can get more."
"Don't be too positive of that, buddy," said the wounded man. "But I certainly do appreciate a swallow of this. Guess I'm booked to go back," he said, as he looked at his mangled hand. Poor fellow! He never was to use it again.
The scenes all about Bob and Iggy were too filled with horror to bear repeating. Though the Americans had swept on victorious, driving the Huns before them and out of their trenches, yet it was at a price. Perhaps, from a military standpoint, not too heavy a price to pay for victory, but still a price.
There were dead, dying, and wounded men all about, and more back where the German resistance had been strongest. Bob and Iggy had come through the ordeal with nothing more than slight flesh wounds. They were sufficiently painful, but not serious enough to send them to the hospital. Iggy had been scratched on the arm by a ragged bit of shrapnel shell, and Bob had received a cut on the forehead by some flying missile.