They crawl in singly; and the last one,
impatient, pushes the others; they become an involuntary carpet in
the dense darkness of the hole.
A sound of steps and of voices becomes distinct and draws nearer.
From the mass of the four men who tightly hung up the burrow,
tentative hands are put out at a venture. All at once Pepin
murmurs in a stifled voice, "What's this?"
"What?" ask the others, pressed and wedged against him.
"Clips!" says Pepin under his breath, "Boche cartridge-clips
on the shelf! We're in the Boche trench!"
"Let's hop it." Three men make a jump to get out.
"Look out, bon Dieu! Don't stir!--footsteps--"
They hear some one walking, with the quick step of a solitary man.
They keep still and bold their breath. With their eyes fixed on the
ground level, they see the darkness moving on the right, and then a
shadow with legs detaches itself, approaches, and passes. The shadow
assumes an outline. It is topped by a helmet covered with a cloth
and rising to a point. There is no other sound than that of his
passing feet.
Hardly has the German gone by when the four cooks, with no concerted
plan and with a single movement, burst forth, jostling each other,
run like madmen, and hurl themselves on him.
"Kamerad, messieurs!" he says.
But the blade of a knife gleams and disappears. The man collapses as
if he would plunge into the ground. Pepin seizes the helmet
as the Boche is failing and keeps it in his hand.
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