Some one touched a lighted match to a cigarette. It glowed softly in the darkness, a bright, inquisitive eye.
“Put out that God-damned light,” Lieutenant Bedford whispered hoarsely. “Do you want us all to get shot up?”
Soon at the edge of the woods the branches were parted and a tense voice called: “Where is Lieutenant Bedford?”
It was a messenger from battalion headquarters carrying orders for the platoon to move. The summons was passed along from squad to squad, a disagreeable secret hurriedly disposed of. The men slung their packs and, holding their rifles in front of them, filed slowly and carefully out of the woods to form in a column of twos.
Lieutenant Bedford in front and Sergeant Ryan in rear—as if, Hicks thought, some of the men were thinking of deserting—the men marched off, joining the other platoons in the middle of the field. Lieutenant Bedford called:
“Pass the word along to keep quiet; we’re within hearing distance of the front lines.”
On both sides the artillery was silent. Occasionally a machine-gun would fire a string of bullets the sound of which died in the stillness without an echo.
The platoon dragged slowly on, their legs soaked around the knees from the dew nestling on the tall wheat. For perhaps a mile they had marched, and the platoon, like a sensitive instrument, was beginning to have an unaccountable perception of danger, when shoes were heard swishing through the heavy wheat, and a voice said:
“Turn around, you damned fools. Do you want to walk straight into the German trenches!”
The men breathed relievedly. Apparently they were not going immediately to attack. Recovering, they began audibly to curse the lieutenant.