’The Field Training Manual’ has it that patrols are primarily intended for reconnaissance, not fighting,—in other words, to see without being seen. Spud remembered this. He was also aware that the German commissariat was badly managed. Perhaps that accounted for his stuffing of bread and meat into the haversacks of his party. The men were also ordered to keep their tongues and rifles from barking, and when the enemy was spotted—to lie down. Having duly impressed his little band with these instructions, he gave the order to march. Away they went, Spud at the head. Like cats, they stalked on the metalled roadway for almost a mile.
"Halt!" whispered Spud on nearing a long line of trees which he knew were occupied by the outposts of the enemy. Then all lay down. For a time they could see nothing in the darkness, but gradually their eyes grew accustomed to things. A crunching of feet told its own tale of sentry-go, and a few minutes later the patrol discerned two men at the edge of the wood.
"Micky, you come wi’ me," said Spud to his old friend Cameron. "You others stiy here. If you think we’re gettin’ done in, come owre an’ len’ a haund. But mind, nae shootin’—the bayonet, every time."
"Right ho, Spud," was the willing response as the sergeant and Micky crawled away on their hands and knees. For twenty minutes they wriggled like snakes. Luck and the shadows favoured them. They finished up fifty yards from the German sentries.
"Here, Spud," whispered Micky, "this is sudden daith for us."
"Na, I’m no’ feart, but are we no’ daft?"
"Blethers! Noo, look here, Micky, get yer haversack haundy, an’ mind the breid."
"Ay, jist like catchin’ canaries. But, listen, when thae chaps turn their backs, mak’ a jump for it. Nae killin’, though. Haunds up, and then gie them a lump o’ breid."
"Dae whit yer tell’t. I’m fed up wi’ yer questions. If yer feart, awa’ hame." This sharp retort ended Micky’s fears. For the next ten minutes they lay watching their prey. Then came their chance. The two sentries met and turned their backs to have a chat. With a light bounding step, Spud and Micky reached their men. The startled sentries turned and then jumped for their rifles, which were leaning against a tree. Too late, though. A glistening bayonet and a low command, "Haunds up," ended their service in the German Army. Both held their hands up in terror, expecting a sudden despatch to the heavenly land, at the same time tearfully muttering, "Don’t hurt me—Don’t hurt me," for, like nearly all Germans, they spoke English well.