O. D. looked and listened at the things of the night. A sentry strolled leisurely along the road where the guns of his regiment were camouflaged. Far in front of him a chain of golden rockets climbed against the horizon and disappeared as if by magic. The thing that O. D. had thought was thunder came to his ears again. Then all was so quiet that he could hear Jimmy sleeping.
“I’m almost at the front,” soliloquized the man to himself. “No one else seems to know it, or feel it, but me. Guess I better try to sleep.” He turned to go back in the pup tent.
A soft, subdued thing like the drone of a bee rose and fell on the night air. O. D. jumped forward a trifle, startled by the sinister beelike noise that seemed almost overhead.
Rat-tat-tat-tat! B-o-o-m! B-o-o-m! Rat-tat-tat-tat!
The peace of the night ended in the fierce barking of machine-guns and the crash of anti-air-craft cannon. Between shots, the soft droning that came from the skies continued in a casual, business-like way that caused cold perspiration to come unbidden to O. D.’s forehead.
B—A—N—G!
A bomb exploded about four hundred yards from where O. D. stood, and the ground quivered beneath him.
The sound of waking men stirred him to speak.
“What—— What is it?” he asked.
“Nothin’ but a Boche plane droppin’ bombs. They’re goin’ at him with the archies, but might just as well use pea-shooters. Never get a plane with that stuff,” came the answer from a dark part of the woods.