That space before him was empty, but it was charged with current.  Wind, shadow, gloom, smoke, electricity, death, spirit—­whatever that current was, Dorn felt it.  He was more afraid of that than the occasional bullets which zipped across.  Sometimes shots from his own squad rang out up and down the line.  Off somewhat to the north a machine-gun on the Allies’ side spoke now and then spitefully.  Way back a big gun boomed.  Dorn listened to the whine of shells from his own side with a far different sense than that with which he heard shells whine from the enemy.  How natural and yet how unreasonable!  Shells from the other side came over to destroy him; shells from his side went back to save him.  But both were shot to kill!  Was he, the unknown and shrinking novice of a soldier, any better than an unknown and shrinking soldier far across there in the darkness?  What was equality?  But these were Germans!  That thing so often said—­so beaten into his brain—­did not convince out here in the face of death.

* * * * *

Four o’clock!  With the gray light came a gradually increasing number of shells.  Most of them struck far back.  A few, to right and left, dropped near the front line.  The dawn broke—­such a dawn as he never dreamed of—­smoky and raw, with thunder spreading to a circle all around the horizon.

He was relieved.  On his way in he passed Purcell at the nearest post.  The elegant New-Yorker bore himself with outward calm.  But in the gray dawn he looked haggard and drawn.  Older!  That flashed through Dorn’s mind.  A single night had contained years, more than years.  Others of the squad had subtly changed.  Dixon gave him a penetrating look, as if he wore a mask, under which was a face of betrayal, of contrast to that soldier bearing, of youth that was gone forever.

CHAPTER XXVIII

The squad of men to which Dorn belonged had to be on the lookout continually for an attack that was inevitable.  The Germans were feeling out the line, probably to verify spy news of the United States troops taking over a sector.  They had not, however, made sure of this fact.

The gas-shells came over regularly, making life for the men a kind of suffocation most of the time.  And the great shells that blew enormous holes in front and in back of their position never allowed a relaxation from strain.  Drawn and haggard grew the faces that had been so clean-cut and brown and fresh.

* * * * *

One evening at mess, when the sector appeared quiet enough to permit of rest, Rogers was talking to some comrades before the door of the dugout.