The ground-sheet hung up over the entrance was pulled aside, and the voice continued:
"That's all right, boys; hope you'll have a full house after the stunt."
The men sprang to their feet and stood at attention. It was well that the roof of the dug-out was a fairly lofty one. Sergeant Fortescue saluted.
"Beg pardon, sir!" he exclaimed, for standing in the doorway, cloaked and wearing his shrapnel-helmet, was the Brigadier.
"Glad to see you so chirpy, boys," remarked the Brigadier. "Good night, and good luck!"
The next instant he was gone, to continue his flying visits to the men. It had been an anxious time, especially to the commanding officers, and, in order to satisfy themselves that the boys were still in a position to carry out the attack, the brigadiers made personal tours along the firing-line.
"He's some sport," declared Selwyn. "What's it like outside, I wonder? I'll go and have a look round."
Malcolm accompanied his chum. In the open air the cold, contrasted with the warmth of the dug-out, was intense. The wind blew chilly upon their faces. Overhead the sky was darkened with drifting clouds, between the rifts of which the light of the full moon shone upon the ghostly expanse of shell-craters.
The German guns were still firing hotly, directing their missiles a good four hundred yards behind the New Zealand lines. The British artillery was replying, but lacking the intensity of the enemy's fire.
"Hanged if I'd like to be with the ration-parties to-night," remarked Selwyn. "There'll be a few of the boys knocked out behind our lines, I fancy."