Such a charge the enemy were certain to make.  The Germans, too, must soon learn of the defection of the supports.  It was now only a question of an hour or less before a charge with a double-enveloping movement would surround and bag the Here-We-Comes, catching the whole regiment in an inescapable trap.

To fall back, now, up that long bare hillside, under full fire of the augmented German artillery, would mean a decimating of the entire command.  The Here-We-Comes could not retreat.  They could not hope to hold their ground.  The sole chance for life lay in the arrival of strong reenforcements from the rear, to help them hold the trenches until night, or to man the supporting positions.  Reserves were within easy striking distance.  But, as happened so many times in the war, there was no routine way to summon them in time.

It was the chance sight of a crumpled message lying on his dugout-table that reminded the colonel of Bruce’s existence and of his presence in the front trench.  It was a matter of thirty seconds for the colonel to scrawl an urgent appeal and a brief statement of conditions.  Almost as soon as the note was ready, an orderly appeared at the dugout entrance, convoying the newly awakened Bruce.

The all-important message was fastened in place.  The colonel himself went to the edge of the traverse, and with his own arms lifted the eighty-pound collie to the top.

There was tenderness as well as strength in the lifting arms.  As he set Bruce down on the brink, the colonel said, as if speaking to a fellow-human: 

“I hate to do it, old chap.  I hate to!  There isn’t one chance in three of your getting all the way up the hill alive.  But there wouldn’t be one chance in a hundred, for a man.  The boches will be on the lookout for just this move.  And their best sharpshooters will be waiting for you—­even if you dodge the shrapnel and the rest of the artillery.  I’m sorry!  And—­good-by.”

Then, tersely, he rasped out the command—­

“Bruce!  Headquarters!  Headquarters!  Quick!”

At a bound, the dog was gone.

Breasting the rise of the hill, Bruce set off at a sweeping run, his tawny-and-white mane flying in the wind.

A thousand eyes, from the Here-We-Come trenches, watched his flight.  And as many eyes from the German lines saw the huge collie’s dash up the coverless slope.

Scarce had Bruce gotten fairly into his stride when the boche bullets began to sing—­not a desultory little flurry of shots, as before; but by the score, and with a murderous earnestness.  When he had appeared, on his way to the trenches, an hour earlier, the Germans had opened fire on him, merely for their own amusement—­ upon the same merry principle which always led them to shoot at an Ally war-dog.  But now they understood his all-important mission; and they strove with their best skill to thwart it.

The colonel of the Here-We-Comes drew his breath sharply between his teeth.  He did not regret the sending of the collie.  It had been a move of stark military necessity.  And there was an off chance that it might mean the saving of his whole command.