With a grave face, the boy looked over the ghastly battle-field and at the bodies of the blue-clad soldiers who had faced the Germans for the last time and died for their country. Harrowing as the scene was, however, he realized that at such a time emotions must be held in check; the duty of all was to the living.
Accordingly, he was glancing around, in order to see where he might be of help, when an officer approached. In sharp, authoritative tones, he commanded them to get away from that immediate vicinity with all possible speed.
"You are lucky not to have been killed," he declared.
"That's just how we feel about it," remarked the aviator's son, grimly.
"We have plenty of men here to do the work," continued the officer. "There's no use of your taking any chances. The Red Cross needs you."
The two, obeying his mandate, climbed down into the trench and started back the way they had come.
A little further along a communication trench opened out before them, and, swinging into this, they kept up a lively pace—or at least as lively as they could with so many soldiers constantly moving about in both directions.
No stops were made, however, for every now and then the cannonading started up afresh. The reports of rifle-firing in the trenches, too, carried over the air with unpleasant distinctness.
"I reckon when Chase hears our story he'll be mighty glad he didn't come along," declared Don.
"I reckon you're right about that," chuckled Dunstan. "By the way, old chap, it's becoming kind of sultry. To my mind, a storm is brewing."