A moment afterward an automatic rifle broke nervously into a series of put-put-puts.
As one man, the party fell flat on their stomachs.
“Put-put-put. Put-put-put,” said the automatic rifle.
“Damnation,” Bedford cursed. “It’s somebody from our lines firing at us.”
“Well, don’t talk so loud,” one of the men said angrily, “or you’ll have both sides on us.”
The lieutenant from the Intelligence section gave orders for the men to lie prone and to crawl after him. After a while he rose, motioning for the others to get up.
“I think,” he said, talking to Bedford in an undertone, “that this is the place where we get back in the trench. Let’s count up our men and see if they are all here.”
They counted as many times as a surgeon counts the sponges he uses in an operation, but each count only made more certain that there was one man missing. Investigation showed them that the lost man was Corporal Olin, from the adjoining company.
While they were debating upon what course to take, they noticed from their lines a green rocket fired into the air.
“Gas,” hoarsely cried the lieutenant of the Intelligence section, struggling to get on his respirator.