When they were going back along the communication trench in the rain, wading single file, Claude broke the silence abruptly.  “That was one of your records they played tonight, that violin solo, wasn’t it?”

“Sounded like it.  Now we go to the right.  I always get lost here.”

“Are there many of your records?”

“Quite a number.  Why do you ask?”

“I’d like to write my mother.  She’s fond of good music.  She’ll get your records, and it will sort of bring the whole thing closer to her, don’t you see?”

“All right, Claude,” said David good-naturedly.  “She will find them in the catalogue, with my picture in uniform alongside.  I had a lot made before I went out to Camp Dix.  My own mother gets a little income from them.  Here we are, at home.”  As he struck a match two black shadows jumped from the table and disappeared behind the blankets.  “Plenty of them around, these wet nights.  Get one?  Don’t squash him in there.  Here’s the sack.”

Gerhardt held open the mouth of a gunny sack, and Claude thrust the squirming corner of his blanket into it and vigorously trampled whatever fell to the bottom.  “Where do you suppose the other is?” “He’ll join us later.  I don’t mind the rats half so much as I do Barclay Owens.  What a sight he would be with his clothes off!  Turn in; I’ll go the rounds.”  Gerhardt splashed out along the submerged duckboard.  Claude took off his shoes and cooled his feet in the muddy water.  He wished he could ever get David to talk about his profession, and wondered what he looked like on a concert platform, playing his violin.

IX

The following night, Claude was sent back to Division Head-quarters at Q—­ with information the Colonel did not care to commit to paper.  He set off at ten o’clock, with Sergeant Hicks for escort.  There had been two days of rain, and the communication trenches were almost knee-deep in water.  About half a mile back of the front line, the two men crawled out of the ditch and went on above ground.  There was very little shelling along the front that night.  When a flare went up, they dropped and lay on their faces, trying, at the same time, to get a squint at what was ahead of them.

The ground was rough, and the darkness thick; it was past midnight when they reached the east-and-west road—­usually full of traffic, and not entirely deserted even on a night like this.  Trains of horses were splashing through the mud, with shells on their backs, empty supply wagons were coming back from the front.  Claude and Hicks paused by the ditch, hoping to get a ride.  The rain began to fall with such violence that they looked about for shelter.  Stumbling this way and that, they ran into a big artillery piece, the wheels sunk over the hubs in a mud-hole.

“Who’s there?” called a quick voice, unmistakably British.

“American infantrymen, two of us.  Can we get onto one of your trucks till this lets up?”