"Oh, there'll be more fighting," was the answer from a young soldier named Harry Blondell, with whom Bob had become friendly. "There's got to be more fighting. I guess our officers are laying pipes for another big scrap that'll carry us clear into Germany." "That would be some advance!" laughed Bob. "But, at the same time, the Boches may be planning to come through our lines again." "Well, we'll be ready for 'em," declared Harry. "I never felt better in all my life. This hard fighting and living in the mud and wet seems to agree with me." "Glad you're fit!" declared Bob. "The Kaiser'll probably be worried when he hears you're ready to take the field again against his divisions." "No doubt!" chuckled Harry. The truth of the matter was that, aside from wounds, the health of the American soldiers was excellent in spite of adverse conditions due to the climate. They could be wet to the skin day after day, and yet few of them took colds, and many of them were delicate lads who, up to a few months before, would not have thought of going out in the rain without rubbers and an umbrella. It was one evening when Bob and Iggy, together with many of their comrades, were preparing to go on duty for their night tricks that a rumor started somewhere in the trenches to the effect that a big battle impended on the morrow. Just who was responsible for this no one seemed to know, but soon after the talk circulated it was noticed that there was great activity around the brigade headquarters. Messengers hurried to and fro, and several American aeroplanes were observed fluttering over the German lines. "Well, fighting is what we're here for," said Bob to Iggy, as they started for the traverse where they were to be on duty about half the night--unless an attack should come. "Yes, it is better to have a fight and get with it through than to be waiting all the times," said the Polish lad. It was rather a nervous strain for many sentries that night as they stood on the firing step, gazing across No Man's Land toward the barbed-wire entanglements of the Germans. Would the Sammies get the order to charge across there, after a barrage had been laid down? Or would the gray hordes leap out and try to thrust back the soldiers of Uncle Sam who were slowly but surely smashing the Hun lines? This might be known to the staff officers in the headquarters back of the American lines, or the answer might be made by the Boche generals. So it was nervous waiting, and Bob, in common with the others, felt it as they stood on duty through the long hours of the dark night. It was nearing three o'clock, and it would be dawn in another hour, when platoon officers began moving along the trenches, and as they passed group after group of the Sammies the officers whispered: "Be ready! We attack at four o'clock!" Those who had wrist watches looked at them, the radium-illuminated dials showing the approximate time.