The other spoke slowly, looking in front of him.
“Oh, I’m not in the least afraid of anything, if we can only get into the trench,” he said. “If the wire’s cut . . .”
“Oh, damn the wire,” said the Senior Subaltern hotly, “it can’t help being cut. Anyhow, there’s very little there to start with, and if there’s any bombardment at all, it’ll go west; and there’s going to be a hell of a bombardment. Anyhow, we can’t do any more. Come on in and feed.”
For the last week the two had been down in the village with their fifty men, training hard for a raid on the German salient opposite their line. A fortnight’s hard reconnoitring night after night had let them know all that could be known about the ground, and the week had been mostly spent in bayonet fighting and bombing, and generally in making them, as the Senior Subaltern put it, “fit to waltz through hell and back again.” But all the time their two officers had before them one dread—the spectre of the uncut wire. They were both experienced soldiers and knew what it meant—and now, as they went into luncheon, each saw a vision of his splendid men struggling in the meshes, and heard the rattle of a ghostly machine-gun. At luncheon they managed to forget their fear for a little, and the Senior Subaltern, a light-hearted person, entertained the Quartermaster, Transport Officer, and Padre,
