“Let’s sit here a while. That damned flare didn’t seem to be more than a hundred yards from here.”
“Yeah, le’s. I don’t want to git my head shot off this late in the game.”
They talked on in undertones, while Hicks, silent, smiled serenely in the darkness. Suddenly he realized that they were not the only persons in the trench. A few feet before him two other bodies, huddled together, were discernible. He had no thought of the fact that he was between both lines, and that any other persons who were also there must be enemies. He only knew that he wanted to talk to these strangers in front of him.
“It’s a quiet night, what?”
“Don’t talk so loud,” the men beside him counselled.
He shook his head, annoyed at their interruption, and began again:
“What outfit do you fellows belong to?”
“Who are you talkin’ to, Hicks? What’s the matter with you?” his loader impatiently asked.
Hicks ignored him. “What outfit did you say you belonged to? What?”—as if they had answered indistinctly.