"In-Germany?" By the way the subaltern said it, the possibility had never crossed his mind. "Don't you think that's asking a bit much?"

"Evidently, sir." Walsh left it right there. If the French generals-to say nothing of the British generals (which was about what they deserved to have said of them)-were worth the paper they were printed on, the German High Command wouldn't have been able to impose its will on them with such effortless ease. That had happened the last time around, too. The Boches ran out of men and materiel then, while the Yanks gave the Allies all they needed.

No Yanks in the picture now, worse luck. Just the German generals against their British and French counterparts. Christ help us, Walsh thought.

As if to remind people who'd forgotten (Second Lieutenant Herman Cavendish, for instance) that they hadn't gone away, German gunners began lobbing shells into Messy. When they started landing too close for comfort, Walsh jumped into the nearest hole in the ground. It wasn't as if he didn't have plenty of choices.

He thought Cavendish would stay upright and make a brave little speech about command responsibility-till a flying fragment did something dreadful to him. But no: the subaltern dove for cover, too. He'd learned something, anyhow. Walsh wouldn't have bet more than tuppence ha'penny on it.

After ten minutes or so, the bombardment eased off. Walsh cradled the Schmeisser he'd taken off a dead Boche-for throwing a lot of lead around at close quarters, nothing beat a submachine gun. If the Germans decided they wanted Messy back, he was ready to argue with them.

But no hunched-over figures wearing field-gray and coal-scuttle helmets loped forward. This was just harassing fire: hate, they would have called it in the last war. Somebody off in the distance was yelling for a medic, so the bastards serving a 105 had earned their salary this morning.