Buttons | Page 3

which, the captain valued much.
"Take him out and feed him," said the unscrupulous Cottingham. Then
to Sergeant Sands, "Sergeant, get volunteers for a raid to-night. I am
the first volunteer. We will go over at two-fifteen."
"Shall we strike at that dugout? I beg to recommend it, sir."
"Very good 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