“I guess Fritzie is trying to put something over on us, being our first night,” said the M. O. “I'll get my boys out.”
He ran to the adjoining dugout, where his corporal and stretcher bearers were sleeping, roused them and sent them up the trench. There was the sound of subdued voices and of quick marching feet along the communication trench a few yards away. They stood together listening for a few minutes.
“I'm going,” said Barry, hurrying off in the direction of the sound. “Come on.”
“Captain Dunbar,” called the M. O. sharply, “my place is here, and I think this is where you will be most useful as well. They will bring the wounded to us right here.”
In a few minutes all was still again, except for the machine guns, which still kept up their incessant tattoo.
The M. O. was correct in his forecast. In a few minutes down the communication trench came a wounded man walking, jubilant in spite of his wounds.
“Fritzie tried to put one over on us,” he exclaimed, while the doctor was dabbing with iodine and tying up his wounded arm, “but I think he's got another guess coming. You ought to have seen our officer,” he added. “The first one in the bunch to be 'at 'em.' With a bayonet, too, mind you. Grabbed one from a private as he ran past, and bombs bursting like hell all around. Beg pardon, sir,” he added, turning to Barry. “He's some kid, poor chap. He's got his, I guess.”
“Who is he?” asked the M. O.
“Lieutenant Cameron, sir.”
“Cameron!” cried Barry. “Where is he?”