on, while in half an hour they can almost be in trenches,
though these are not as deep as the permanent ones.

While part of the advancing Americans still maintained a fusillade
from their rifles and from a few machine guns that had been rushed up,
others used the intrenching tools. Then, when all were under temporary
shelter, they began assaulting the Boches from their vantage places.

But now the Germans had begun to fight back with their artillery,
only, fortunately for Ned, Bob, and Jerry, and their comrades, the
range was not yet ascertained, so that the shots flew well over their
heads. The shells landed back of the American trenches which had been
abandoned when the order came to go over the top, and as this ground
was temporarily vacant no great harm was done.

"There go our guns again!" cried Ned into Jerry's ear, as he lay
stretched out beside his tall chum.

"Yes. They're trying to drive the Huns back so we can go on. We've got
to get farther than this."

The battle was now one of longer range, the first fierceness of the
infantry having spent itself. Indeed, the men were practically out of
ammunition, though a reserve stock was being rushed to them under the
cover of the American guns.

A considerable space, corresponding to No Man's Land, separated the
two lines, and over the heads of the prostrate men flew the shells of
their respective batteries. So, for the time being, except for stray
shooting of rifles and machine guns, the two confronting lines of
infantry were comparatively safe.

It was during this lull that Bob, looking back from where he was
sheltered by a little hill of earth and stones, uttered a cry.

"What's the matter?" asked Jerry quickly. "Are you hit, Chunky?"

"Hit? No! But look there! Fried holes! See 'em!"

For an instant both Ned and Jerry thought that Bob had been seriously
hurt, and was out of his head. But they looked to where he pointed and
saw a man in the uniform of the Salvation Army coming across the
ground over which the Americans had recently stormed. And the intrepid
noncombatant carried on either arm a big basket of a type well known
to our American fighters.

"Fried holes!" cried Bob. "Fried holes! Salvation Army doughnuts,
fellows! I'm going to get some!"

CHAPTER XVIII

THE SCHOOL JANITOR

Just how it happened that the Salvation Army worker had ventured into
that place of death none knew, and none stopped to inquire. Probably
the man, in his eag