On the way over I could not help thinking how
lonely it would be that night in the dugout without Billy, and memories
of the hundred and one incidents connected with our toil and trouble and
joy in fixing up our nest flocked through my tired mind.
They were hard at work mending the damage done at daybreak by that
messenger of hell. As I reached the spot, one of the boys remarked, "If
that shell explodes before we get through, there will be no need of a
grave for us." Very nearly fifteen hours had passed, however, since it
had struck, and none of us felt there was any danger from that
direction, as it was quite uncommon for any of them to burst if they had
not done so within at least twelve hours, and I answered, "Oh, no,
fellows, there is nothing to fear from it." I stepped to the back of the
trench where the shell was imbedded in the parados and examined the
spot. "I guess it is there for keeps," I said, and returned to work. In
a few minutes one or two of the boys complained of thirst, and I
volunteered to get water. I ran down the steps into my dugout, got
Billy's water bottle and my own, and doubled down to the cook's dugout,
filled them with drinking water, and was just starting back when the
ground under me shook with an explosion, splinters coming from all
directions, and one of them slightly wounding the cook.
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