“What time will you be back?” inquired the subaltern in charge of the platoon holding that part of the British trench. It was his duty to warn sentries to be on the lookout for the return of scouting parties.
Martin glanced at the luminous watch on his wrist. It was then seven o’clock, and the night promised to be dark and quiet. The evening “strafe” had just ended, and the German guns would reopen fire on the trenches about five in the morning. During the intervening hours the artillery would indulge in groups of long shots, hoping to catch the commissariat or a regiment marching on the pavé in column of fours.
“About twelve,” said Martin.
“Well, so long, sir! I’ll have some coffee ready.”
“So long!” And Martin led the way up a trench ladder.
No man wishes another “Good luck!” in these enterprises. By a curious inversion of meaning, “Good luck!” implies a ninety per cent chance of getting killed!
The two advanced rapidly for the first hundred yards. Then they separated, each crawling out into the open for about twenty yards to right and left. Snuggling into a convenient shell hole, they would listen intently, with an ear to the ground, their object being to detect the rhythmic beat of a pick, if a mining party was busy. Each remained exactly ten minutes. Then they met and compared notes, always by signal. If necessary, they would visit a suspected locality together and endeavor to locate the line of the tunnel.
It was essential that the British side of “No Man’s Land” should not be too quiet. Every few minutes a rocket or a Verrey light would soar over that torn Golgotha. But there was method in the seeming madness. The first and second glare would illuminate an area well removed from Martin’s territory. The third might be right over him or Mason, but they were then so well hidden that the sharpest eye could not discern their presence.
By nine o’clock they had covered more than a hundred yards of the enemy’s front, skirting his trip-wire throughout the whole distance. They had heard no fewer than six mining parties. Each had advanced some thirty yards. In effect, if the German trench was to be taken at all, the attack must be made next day, and the artillery preparation should commence at dawn. Instead of returning to the subaltern’s dugout at midnight, Martin wanted to reach the telephone not later than ten, and hurry back to headquarters. The staff would have another sleepless night, but a British battalion would not be blown up while its successive “waves” were crossing “No Man’s Land.”
Mason and he crept like lizards to the sunk fence. All they needed now was a close scrutiny of the German parapet in that section. It was a likely site for a machine-gun emplacement and, in that case, would receive special attention from a battery of 4.7’s.