“Sorry to leave such a mess for you to clean up, sir, but we got it bad in here.  He’s been shelling us every night since we drove him out.  I couldn’t ask the men to do anything but hold on.”

“That’s all right.  You beat it, with your boys, quick!  My men will hand you out some grub as you go back.”

The battered defenders of the Boar’s Head stumbled past them through the darkness into the communication.  When the last man had filed out, the Colonel sent for Barclay Owens.  Claude and David tried to feel their way about and get some idea of the condition the place was in.  The stench was the worst they had yet encountered, but it was less disgusting than the flies; when they inadvertently touched a dead body, clouds of wet, buzzing flies flew up into their faces, into their eyes and nostrils.  Under their feet the earth worked and moved as if boa constrictors were wriggling down there soft bodies, lightly covered.  When they had found their way up to the Snout they came upon a pile of corpses, a dozen or more, thrown one on top of another like sacks of flour, faintly discernible in the darkness.  While the two officers stood there, rumbling, squirting sounds began to come from this heap, first from one body, then from another—­gases, swelling in the liquefying entrails of the dead men.  They seemed to be complaining to one another; glup, glup, glup.

The boys went back to the Colonel, who was standing at the mouth of the communication, and told him there was nothing much to report, except that the burying squad was needed badly.

“I expect!” The Colonel shook his head.  When Barclay Owens arrived, he asked him what could be done here before daybreak.  The doughty engineer felt his way about as Claude and Gerhardt had done; they heard him coughing, and beating off the flies.  But when he came back he seemed rather cheered than discouraged.

“Give me a gang to get the casualties out, and with plenty of quick-lime and concrete I can make this loop all right in four hours, sir,” he declared.

“I’ve brought plenty of lime, but where’ll you get your concrete?”

“The Hun left about fifty sacks of it in the cellar, under your Headquarters.  I can do better, of course, if I have a few hours more for my concrete to dry.”

“Go ahead, Captain.”  The Colonel told Claude and David to bring their men up to the communication before light, and hold them ready.  “Give Owens’ cement a chance, but don’t let the enemy put over any surprise on you.”

The shelling began again at daybreak; it was hardest on the rear trenches and the three-mile area behind.  Evidently the enemy felt sure of what he had in Moltke trench; he wanted to cut off supplies and possible reinforcements.  The Missouri battalion did not come up that day, but before noon a runner arrived from their Colonel, with information that they were hiding in the wood.  Five Boche planes had been circling over the wood since dawn, signalling to the enemy Headquarters back on Dauphin Ridge; the Missourians were sure they had avoided detection by lying close in the under-brush.  They would come up in the night.  Their linemen were following the runner, and Colonel Scott would be in telephone communication with them in half an hour.