"Fritz is still getting badly strafed." observed Danvers, for the guns were thundering unceasingly. The horizon facing the two subalterns was one series of lurid flashes as the British shells pounded the German lines. Haig was taking no unnecessary risks. He was not a leader to needlessly sacrifice his men in costly frontal attacks in close formation. That was a German method of military warfare that had not been accepted by other nations as an essential to success.
There was a certain mistiness in the air. The stars were obscured. The faint breeze hardly disturbed the huge clouds of orange-tinted smoke that stood out clearly against the darkness. Away in the distance a huge conflagration showed that the British shells had set fire to a German "dump," or else the Huns were up to their latest display of kultur—setting fire to a village before "voluntarily retiring to fresh positions."
Contrary to Danvers' expectations their journey was not overburdened with company. The reliefs had gone; the wounded had been carried off. A few "sanitary squads," searching in the darkness, were the only men they met during the first mile of the way.
An aeroplane droned overhead. Neither of the subalterns paid much heed to it. Aviators [unreadable text] night and day were as common as [unreadable text] in the early autumn. Ralph [unreadable text]ver, that it was flying low, its [unreadable text] silhouetted against the glare on the sky-line.
"Beastly cold job," remarked Danvers. "All[unreadable text] in summer, but on a night like this——"
"He's planing down," said Setley. "He's shut off his motor."
"So he is," agreed Ralph's companion. "Wonder why? I shouldn't think a fellow would make a landing here for choice."
They plodded on for another two hundred yards. Suddenly a guttural voice shouted, "Wer da?"
"Huns!" whispered Ralph. Both officers drew their revolvers.
"Are you in need of assistance?" asked Setley in German.