Both officers scrambled out of their shelter. Three men, crouching inside the entrance to a neighbouring dugout, had been hit by fragments of shell—all in the legs. In due course the stretchers arrived, and the trio—our first actual casualties—were borne off upon that long and tortuous journey which starts in a communication-trench and ends possibly at Home. They were followed by the mingled chorus of sympathy and congratulation always accorded in these days to those who are taken, by those who are left. More German shells arrived. The parapet was hit in two places, and burst sandbags flew in the air. But it was not “heavy stuff”—so the artillery officer remarked, busy in his forward observing-station with periscope and telephone—and the actual damage was slight. “I am calling for retaliation now,” he explained to Boone and Jim. He gabbled a formula to the telephone orderly, who repeated it into a portable instrument before him. Presently the man looked up. “Battery fired!” he announced. And a few moments later— _Whish!_ _Whish!_ _Whish!_ _Whish!_ Four hissing streaks of sound passed over the trench from the rear. Next moment four heavy detonations shook the earth. A hundred pairs of eager eyes, peeping cautiously over the parapet, observed four fountains of earth and smoke spring up in No Man’s Land. “Short!” muttered the gunner officer, and issued a corrective order. So the duel went on. It was a typical artillery fight, in that each side endeavoured to dissuade its opponent from further participation by bombarding, not one another, but one another’s friends in the trenches. The German fire did not slacken; if anything it increased. Probably Brother Boche was well aware that a fresh division had taken over the line, and desired to make a good first impression. But there were no more casualties. “I’m tired of this. What about finishing our tea?” enquired Boone Cruttenden of Jim Nichols. “Sure thing,” said Jim. “Come on!” * * * * * But no. As they rounded the traverse leading into their own particular bay, there came a roar and a bang—and their home was not. When the smoke cleared away they saw, instead of a rugged and workmanlike parapet, a jumbled heap of disintegrated sandbags and twisted timber-work. Jim Nichols turned to his companion, with his slow smile. “There!” he said. “Do you still hold that the best place during a bombardment is a dugout?” “I’m stung, I admit,” said Boone. “But now you can test _your_ theory. You can sit in the middle of that mess that the shell has made. It’s in full view of the enemy, but of course you’ll be safe!” The rival theorist smiled again. “I confess I have died on that proposition,” he said. CHAPTER THIRTEEN AN EXCURSION AND AN ALARUM We now regard ourselves, justifiably, as initiated.