nothing
could be better. Our battalion will take Biaches, and it will be hot
work."

"What are the troops we shall have to face, sergeant?" said Dennis.

"Senegalese, I am told--Black Devils, who stick at nothing--and some
Territorials, mostly old men and fathers of families; but we shall see."

"Yes, we shall see!" murmured Dennis, as the command "_Links
schliessen!_" was given, and the battalion touched in to its left.

Hoarse voices bellowed out of the thick mist, and the 307th Reserve
Battalion, after marching for a short distance along the river, filed
across a lock bridge and plunged into the woods.

Smoking was forbidden, and strict silence enjoined. Other battalions had
come from Peronne by way of the Faubourg de Paris, and there were
several halts to establish communication.

Overhead the fog was tinged with a rosy hue, but round about the men all
was grey, and one could see very little farther than the spectral
tree-trunks in one's immediate vicinity.

The foxy-faced captain with the gold-rimmed glasses marched behind his
company, and in his hand he carried a brutal whip, a veritable
cat-o'-nine-tails. When a man stumbled over some hidden tree root he
would hiss out "Pig!" or "Clumsy hound!" And Dennis felt his heart leap
as he heard himself addressed.

"You with the bombs there--what are you doing with those brown boots?"
said the captain.

"They belong to an English prisoner," said Dennis, with perfect truth.

"That is no excuse," said the officer sternly. "You will report yourself
after this affair is over for daring to go into action improperly
dressed. What is your name?"

"Carl Heft, Herr Captain," said Dennis, over his shoulder.

"Very well, I shall remember it," snarled the bully. And, changing his
tone, he shouted "Vorwaerts!" as a shot rang out ahead of them, and they
heard the French sentries give the alarm.

Instantly the hoarse roll of drums rose from the advancing battalions,
and everyone quickened his pace. The wood thinned out, and, bursting
from the trees, the 307th Reserve Battalion flung themselves with the
bayonet upon the ruined village of Biaches.

There was a belfry tower still standing, and the chimney of a
factory--all the rest was a heap of shattered dwelling's round which the
greeny-grey wave surged with a roar.

In front of them figures in blue-grey ran scurrying, and were joined by
others, and the rifles began to speak.

"This is all very well," thought Dennis,