The dead and wounded enemy were disentangled from the wire, where most of them had fallen. American casualties, thanks to Boone’s warning and Major Powers’s dispositions, had been comparatively slight, though the bombs had taken a certain gruesome toll. Eddie Gillette, who with Al Thompson had returned from his tour of inspection just in time to take part in the defence of the trench, was suffering from abraded knuckles, due to an encounter with a set of Teutonic teeth. Otherwise, none of our particular friends had received a scratch, though Boone and Gogarty had escaped their own artillery barrage by four seconds. An hour later the life of the line had reverted once more from Hell to Monotony. A working-party was out in front, repairing wire and replacing sandbags. Patrols were out again, in case the enemy should feel disposed to throw good money after bad. The artillery stood to, prepared to resume the argument if need be. But not a German gun cheeped all night. Possibly they were surprised about something. Meanwhile a string of prisoners was filing back to Regimental Headquarters, down a communication-trench—or _boyau_, to employ the expressive phrase of its Gallic constructors—muddy, dishevelled, and sulky. German prisoners in these days are not usually sulky: most of them are frankly delighted to be counted out of the War. But this particular consignment were distinguished, under their grime, by a certain peculiar and awful air of outraged majesty. On arrival at Headquarters the mystery was revealed. An American Staff Officer, an expert linguist, took charge of the party, and issued the usual orders. “Sergeant, find out if there are any officers among them, and put them by themselves. Then search the others.” He was answered—in tolerable English—by a lanky youth who stood at the end of the long line of prisoners. “We are _all_ officers!” he announced, with dignity. It was a simple enough explanation, really. This was no common or vulgar raiding-party. It was a junior officers’ Instruction Class, sent over to gain a little experience and confidence in the delicate art of trench-raiding on this “quiet sector of the line.” It was a genuine and painful shock to them to find that the line was held by the Americans in force—the Americans, who, according to the Great General Staff at Headquarters, were still at home, chasing buffaloes down Broadway. Too bad! * * * * * But already these small diversions are swept into the limbo of the Things that do not Matter. Word has just come that our period of trench warfare is over, and that we are to proceed to the Argonne, to take part in the Great Offensive. Evidently some one at the top has decided that this War has gone on long enough. CHAPTER FOURTEEN THE FOREST OF THE ARGONNE