Page:History of the 305th field artillery (IA historyof305thfi01camp).pdf/166

144 small voice came over the wire, reporting. Through his uncertain words we could hear French flowing. The conversation had an astral quality. We could not interrupt it. The groping demands of our man somewhere on that line in the wet, dark night, failed to dam it.

"The line," we distinguished above the queer conversation, "has been tied into close to the road."

It seemed impossible. We asked the startled linesman if he had traced the wire.

"Ye—ye—yes."

"Where does it go?"

"That's just it, sir. It isn't natural. It goes to a dark dugout."

"Maybe Huns with a listening in set."

But even the puzzled linesman didn't believe that, for over the wire came a weaving of French phrases which meant that it was a bitter night for those who fought, a bad night to die.

Our man wasn't afraid of Huns with a listening in set. That meant a fair fight, but he didn't like that dark dugout with such a conversation slipping from it over a wire. He hadn't followed the wire in. He disapproved of attempting it. A direct command was necessary.

He was so long reporting after that that we became uneasy. Perhaps there had been something he couldn't control—too many Huns talking French.

The B drop fell at last, and he was on the wire. His voice was conversational again—rather more agreeable than usual.

"Spooks? Quit your kiddin.' Who said anything about spooks. Frogs. Line looked as if it was tied in, but it wasn't.