There was a continuous stream of officers entering and emerging from the headquarters opposite and twice within half an hour companies of soldiers were brought into formation and passed silently away along the dark road.
"You'll be in Germany in a couple of hours," called a private sitting alongside Tom as some of them passed.
"Cantigny isn't Germany," another said.
"Sure it is," retorted a third; "all the land they hold is German soil. Call us up when you get a chance," he added in a louder tone to the receding ranks.
"Is Cantigny near here?" Tom asked.
"Just across the ditches."
"Are we going to try to take it?"
"Try to? We're going to wrap it up and bring it home."
Tom was going to ask the soldier if he thought there would be any chance for him, though he knew well enough that his business was behind the lines and that the most he could hope for was to carry the good news (if such it proved to be) still farther back, away from the fighting.
"This is going to be the first offensive of your old Uncle Samuel and if we don't get the whole front page in the New York papers we'll be peeved," Tom's neighbor condescended to inform him.