Fifty yards from the first-line trench--forty--thirty--and then the
German guns spoke.

A long line of flame flared up crimson in the pallid dawn.

"Down, men, down!" shouted their officers, and the Yankee lads threw
themselves flat on the ground while a leaden hail swept furiously over
them.

"Are you hurt, Bart?" cried Frank anxiously, as he heard a sharp
exclamation from his comrade.

"Not by a bullet," growled Bart. "Took some of the skin off my knee
though when I went down."

A second time the murderous fire came hurtling over them, but the
officers noted with satisfaction that the enemy were shooting high.

"They haven't got the range yet," observed Billy.

"Up!" came the word of command, and again the men were on their feet and
racing like mad toward the trench.

They came at last to where it had been. For it was no longer a trench!

Gone was the zigzag line that the boys knew by heart from having faced
and fought against it for weeks. The mine had done its work thoroughly.

Everywhere was a welter of hideous confusion. Barbed wire entanglements
with their supporting posts had been rooted from the ground. Guns had