Kennedy, believing that a soldier’s first duty is to obey, did not persist; he saw the captain leave the shelter and join a group of officers on the bank. “It isn’t fair, though, for you to take the blame,” he began. “It’s of no importance,” Wheeler answered. A few moments later Kennedy was convinced that the corporal was mistaken. While Wheeler was talking to another member of the squad, Morrison said to Kennedy in a low voice: “I guess Wheeler’s chance for promotion is gone now. They’re going to make some new sergeants tomorrow, and I thought Wheeler would surely be one; but I guess that forgetting his poncho has queered him with the captain. He’s a stickler about little things.” “It doesn’t seem fair,” repeated Kennedy, as if speaking to himself. Night had settled down, the blackest kind of night, when the first platoon was ordered into the advance trenches. From ambush among the trees behind the shelter searchlights began to play against the woods five hundred yards away, out of which the attack was expected to come. The watchers in the shelter and the trenches remained in utter darkness while the streaming lines of rain and the distant trees emerged into view under the sweeping rays. Back and forth the searchlights plied, raking the whole sector of forest that bounded the field. The men in the shelter, who had stood up to see what the searchlights might disclose, soon sat down again and wrapped their ponchos about themselves more snugly. The minutes passed; there was no sound except that made by the determined, trampling rain. Wheeler, who had been peering over the top of the embankment, came and seated himself between Kennedy and Morrison. “There’s one thing,” he murmured. “The enemy are getting it same as we are.” Morrison grunted. “How do you know? They’re regulars, and maybe they haven’t left their barracks yet. Maybe they won’t till about 2 A. M.” “Don’t be always taking the joy out of life,” Wheeler entreated. At last came the turn of the second platoon. They filed out through the runways into the second-line trench, where they waited until the squads of the first platoon returned from the sections that they had been holding. “Second platoon, load!” In the pitch blackness it was not an easy thing to do. Kennedy got his clip jammed in the magazine and for a few moments could not shove it down or pull it out. Then, when he gave a final desperate wrench, out it came with a jump, slipped through his fingers and fell somewhere in the mud. “Lock your pieces. Forward!” Kennedy had to straighten up and move on without having found his cartridges. When he was in his place between Wheeler and Morrison, he took another clip out of his belt and, working carefully and slowly, inserted it in the magazine. The sound of others working with their rifles let him know that he had not been the only one to get into difficulty. From somewhere behind, Captain Hughes gave instructions: