His nod implied that there was already a secret understanding between them, and as he passed on Dennis saw possibilities looming in the future. A bomber acted more or less independently, and an avenue of escape was opened up to him. All that July day, however, the battalion remained on the bank of the canal resting; and during the afternoon the mist, which had never entirely cleared away, returned, and a thick grey fog muffled the marshlands. True to his promise, the sergeant had provided him with a sheaf of grenades with copper rods to be fired from the rifle and a collar of racket bombs, and Dennis sprang smartly to his feet when the word was given to fall in. "We are going to attack in ten minutes," said the sergeant. "There are two places--the village of Biaches over yonder, and the hill of La Maisonette more to the left. The French carried them on the 9th; they will be ours again to-night. The fog is the very thing for us; nothing could be better. Our battalion will take Biaches, and it will be hot work." "What are the troops we shall have to face, sergeant?" said Dennis. "Senegalese, I am told--Black Devils, who stick at nothing--and some Territorials, mostly old men and fathers of families; but we shall see." "Yes, we shall see!" murmured Dennis, as the command "_Links schliessen!_" was given, and the battalion touched in to its left. Hoarse voices bellowed out of the thick mist, and the 307th Reserve Battalion, after marching for a short distance along the river, filed across a lock bridge and plunged into the woods. Smoking was forbidden, and strict silence enjoined. Other battalions had come from Peronne by way of the Faubourg de Paris, and there were several halts to establish communication. Overhead the fog was tinged with a rosy hue, but round about the men all was grey, and one could see very little farther than the spectral tree-trunks in one's immediate vicinity. The foxy-faced captain with the gold-rimmed glasses marched behind his company, and in his hand he carried a brutal whip, a veritable cat-o'-nine-tails. When a man stumbled over some hidden tree root he would hiss out "Pig!" or "Clumsy hound!" And Dennis felt his heart leap as he heard himself addressed. "You with the bombs there--what are you doing with those brown boots?" said the captain. "They belong to an English prisoner," said Dennis, with perfect truth. "That is no excuse," said the officer sternly. "You will report yourself after this affair is over for daring to go into action improperly dressed. What is your name?" "Carl Heft, Herr Captain," said Dennis, over his shoulder. "Very well, I shall remember it," snarled the bully. And, changing his tone, he shouted "Vorwaerts!" as a shot rang out ahead of them, and they heard the French sentries give the alarm.