He had heard enough talk about trench warfare to know how the Americans intended to conduct this operation.
But he had never seen an offensive in preparation, either large or small, for there had been no American offensives--only raids, and of course he had not participated in these.

It seemed to him that now, at last, he was drawn to the very threshold of active warfare only to be compelled to sit silent and gaze upon a scene every detail of which aroused his longing for action.

The hurried consultation of officers, the rapid falling in line in the darkness, the clear brisk words of command, the quick mechanical response, the departure of one group after another, the thought of that aviator alighting behind the village, the sight of the great, ugly tanks and the big spool aroused his patriotism and his craving for adventure as nothing else had in all the months of his service.

He was nearer to the trenches than ever before.
"If you're riding to Clermont," he heard a soldier say, apparently to him, "you'd better take the south road; turn out when you get to Airian.
The other's full of shell holes from the old trench line." "Best way is to go down through Estrees and follow the road back across the old trench line," said another.
Tom listened absently.

He knew he could find the best way, that was his business, but he did not want to go to Clermont.