XI
He hadn't learned any more about it when Lambert and he were caught on the same afternoon a week later.
In the interminable, haggard thicket the attack had abruptly halted. Word reached George that Lambert's company was falling back. To him that was beyond belief if Lambert was still with his men. He hurried forward before regimental headquarters had had a chance to open its distant mouth. There were machine-gun nests ahead, foolish stragglers told him. Of course. Those were what he had ordered Lambert to take. The company was disorganized. Little groups slunk back, dragging their rifles as if they were too heavy. Others squatted in the underbrush, waiting apparently for some valuable advice.
George found the senior lieutenant, crouched behind a fallen log, getting the company in hand again through runners.
"Where's Captain Planter?"
The lieutenant nodded carelessly ahead.
"Hundred yards or so out there. He ran the show too much himself," he complained. "Bunch of Jerries jumped out of the thicket and threw potato mashers, then crawled back to the guns. When the captain went down the men near him broke. Sort of thing spreads like a pestilence."
"Dead?" George asked.
"Don't know. Potato mashers!"
"Why haven't you found out?" George asked, irritably.