Row after row of the monsters roared by,
going greedily with hungry guns into battle.
more disreputable, was painstakingly manufacturing one complete cigarette from the pinched-out butts of four others. Both were rifle-infantry. Neither had any rights or reason to be occupying a definitely machine-gun-section post. The fact that the machine-gun crew was all dead did not seem to make much difference to sector H.Q. at the other end of the telephone wire, judging from the questions that were being asked.
"I tell you," drawled Sergeant Coffee, "they' dead. . . . Yeah, all dead. Just as dead as when I told you the firs' time, maybe even deader. . . . Gas, o'course. I don't know what kind. . . . Yeh. They got their masks on."
He waited, looking speculatively at the cigarette Corporal Wallis had in manufacture. It began to look imposing. Corporal Wallis regarded it affectionately. Sergeant Coffee put his hand over the mouthpiece, and looked intently at his companion.
"Gimme a drag o' that, Pete," he suggested. "I'll slip y' some butts in a minute."
101
