The terrified Don Hale heard the thud of bullets and fragments of shells all about him. He seemed to be no longer living in the world but in the midst of some awful inferno from which there was no possibility of escape. But though it was unbelievably, fearfully appalling, he managed to keep his wits about him. Faint, weak, every instant expecting utter annihilation, the boy made an effort to walk forward and just then there came a bright, wicked-looking flash, accompanied by a detonation that seemed fairly to crack his ear-drums. The concussion was great enough to hurl him backward; and while his senses were still reeling from the shock, a veritable stream of earth, thrown up as if from the crater of a volcano in eruption, descended upon him and in a moment he was almost buried beneath a mass of mud.
For a time he remained in a state that was neither consciousness nor yet a lack of consciousness—a state wherein the terror of the situation seemed to be softened to such a degree as to make it easy to bear. When the dull, dazed sensations did finally depart, however, leaving him with a clear understanding of the realities, he gave a gasp of wonderment—of almost stupefaction.
A strange calmness had come into the world—of course only a relative calmness, for the batteries had not ceased to fire; yet the contrast between the present and the immediate past was so remarkable as to make it appear as though such a thing could not be. Was it possible that the bombardment was over? Was it possible that he had gone through such peril and remained unscathed?
With a cry expressive of gladness—of the thankfulness he felt, Don Hale endeavored to regain his feet. But a heavy weight was pinning him down to the earth. He kicked and struggled to free himself from the soft, though tenacious grip of the mud. Now, after a valiant effort, he sat up and jerked one leg out of the mire. It was hard work in his weakened condition. The mud was in his eyes—in his hair. The boy happened to recall the officer's description of life in the trenches during rainy weather, and for the first time since leaving headquarters Don smiled, though the smile was grim and set. At any rate, it served to still further relieve his pent-up, overwrought feelings.
Again he exerted all the strength he possessed and presently the other leg slipped out of the mud. And as he struggled up, unstable on his feet, a great throbbing was in his temple. Like a man on the point of swooning, he clutched the nearest object for support.
Then Don suddenly thought of Chase. A terrible fear that his companion had not been so fortunate as himself took possession of him.
A thick pall of smoke hung over the road; and when the lightning came again he caught a faint, shadowy image, a mere silhouette, of Number Eight standing in the middle of the narrow passageway, but he could see no signs of Chase Manning, indeed, no human beings were in view. The road was deserted—he was alone.
What was to be done? Should he, too, seek some abri by the roadside?
"No—no!" he muttered—"no!"
Though almost choking with the smoke and fumes, he nevertheless raised his voice in a loud cry of: