Buttons | Page 3

suggestion, sergeant. We will by all means do so."
Back in the general's big house two belligerents were marshalling their forces against each other. The casus belli was a standing disagreement about most everything. The immediate breach of friendly relations had been brought about by Emilie's announcement that she was going back to England with that unscrupulous Cottingham the minute the war was over.
"What!" demanded madame, "You would waste yourself upon that stupeed braggart of a Tommee Atkeens, when the noble Colonel Cartier will jump through your fingers at the word? Cotteengham--ha!--a lieutenant!"
"He has the grand courage, ma mere. He has said that he will go to Berleen after my buttons."
"To Berleen! I laugh and weep. Berleen! I ask you, is there a poilu who would not make that boast? That Cotteengham will not so much as poke his noodell above the parapet."
"He is not have any fear at all. He will get my buttons back. He says, 'Silly things, buttons; but I'll get 'eem.'"
"When he breengs back those buttons, then go to England with heem; but not otherwise. Will you promeese me that?"
"But no, ma mere. He is the only one who has offered to go to Berleen after them. That Cartier but laughed. Besides, that Veek is a veree especially fine lover. He knows theengs about it that even I do not know."
"Ah, yes! But certainement he does. Why should he not. Experience, he has had plentee."
"You are cruel to that Veek. He comes by eet natural, no?"
Madame was right about one thing. That Cottingham would not poke his noodle above the parapet if he was in his right mind. A crease across the back of his head where the hair would never grow again had taught him that a careless trench dweller had about as much chance as a clay pigeon. When he went over the parapet, as he had many times, he went all together with a curse on his lips and a prayer in his heart that the Fritzies had been "hated" so thoroughly by the big guns that they would not be in the mood for marksmanship.
That night Cottingham and Sergeant Sands sat in the dugout and planned in detail for their little midnight call upon Herr Gottlieb. The sky was clouded and well suited to their purpose.
Outside, waiting the hour, were twenty-seven of the toughest bunch of Suicide Club dynamite slingers that ever lived in a ditch.
The sergeant had Gotffieb's dugout spotted so that he could crawl to it with his eyes shut.
"You wish a quiet affair, if possible, sir?" he asked.
"We must surprise that section of the trench," replied the lieutenant. "I want some time in that dugout."
"It depends on the number of Fritzies around it, sir. If there are but a few between the two trench bends, perhaps we can silence them, get some prisoners, blow up the dugout, and wriggle out in the dark."
"That is what we want, sergeant." When the little timepiece which lived on Cottingham's wrist assured him that it was two-fifteen, he and the sergeant went outside and led the bombers through a little stretch of advance trench which the Fusiliers had been gradually working forward. The danger was minimized by the coal-tar blackness of the night, but they had to move with cat-like quietness or the Fritzie fireworks would show them up. Sergeant Sands was the de facto commander of the expedition, although the lieutenant, as his superior, was nominally in charge.
"All right men," said the sergeant, and they clambered out of the trench and stole away into the darkness. The enemy's trench line was about four hundred and fifty yards ahead, and they could advance upright for a bit.
The Bradford bombers were in their element. The extreme peril of the night trench raid hardly occurred to them. They had been through it so many times that it required a very exceptional trench raid to even interest them. There would be a scuffle for sure, and a 'ell of a scrap, perhaps; but they would come out all right. It was the spirit of the bombers--we'll come out all right.
"Down, now!" came the sergeant's whispered hiss of a command, and down they went on their hands and knees on the wet ground.
Then began the tortuous, nerve-blasting, foot by foot advance which is one of the most severe-tests of human courage that could be asked. The deadly slowness of it would have taken the heart out of gallant but more sensitive men. The bomber is a peculiar type, nerveless, reckless, and absolutely fatalistic.
Cottingham's boldness was of another sort. It was all he could do to restrain himself from jumping up and dashing forward. There was a thrill to "going over" in the light of the sun and with chaps shouting all about one and shells bursting everywhere, but