The cook
had crawled under his bunk, which was merely a slight wire mattress
raised a couple of feet off the floor. There was a dixie of hot tea
standing near and I started to help myself to a drink. He saw what I was
doing and with chattering teeth told me he would report me in the
morning. He had scarcely spoken when a shell tore through the cookhouse,
going clean through the wall over his bed, and as the roar of it passed
by, I heard Scotty again offering up supplications in a manner that
would arouse the admiration of the most earnest camp-meeting devotee.
The shells were commencing to pop all around and I knew instantly that
Fritz had located the cookhouse instead of the battery, and I roared to
Scotty to come out, but he wouldn't budge. I reached under and grabbed
him by the leg, dragging him to the door and leading him by the hand,
for he was shaking like a leaf, made my way to the battery. By that time
Fritz had got a better line on the guns and it was getting so hot that
we got orders to retire to our dugouts. I pushed the cook ahead of me
and when we got to the path leading to our quarters, about 200 yards
off, no sprinter ever lived that could equal the pace of the bow-legged
chef.
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