Then he put his note-book down beside him and crept under his kodak again, carefully fixing the object-glass on the battery opposite. Now then! A streak of solid lightning flashed in front of the second gun, and a black funnel of smoke shot up. Click! No. 847. Firing at the Japanese battery before Hilgard. Singley exchanged the film for a new one, and then looked about for another subject for his camera. He took off his cap and peeped carefully over the edge of the trench. Could he be mistaken? He saw a little black speck making straight for the spot where he was. "A shell" rushed through his thoughts like a flash, and he threw himself flat on the bottom of the trench. With a whirring noise the heavy shell struck the back wall of the trench. "An explosive shell!" shouted Captain Lange, "everybody down!" The air shook with a tremendous detonation; sand and stones flew all around, and the suffocating powder-gas took everybody's breath away; but gradually the soldiers began to recognize one another through the dust and smoke, thankful at finding themselves uninjured. "Captain!" called a weak voice from the bottom of the trench, "Captain Lange, I'm wounded." The captain bent down to assist the war-correspondent, who was almost buried under a pile of earth. "Oh, my legs," groaned Singley. Two soldiers took hold of him and placed him with his back against the wall of earth. The lower part of both his thighs had been smashed by pieces from the shell. "Will you please do me a last service?" he asked of Captain Lange. "Of course, Singley, what is it?" "Please take my kodak!" Singley himself arranged the exposure and handed the camera to the captain, saying: "There, it is set at one twentieth of a second. Now please take my picture-- Thank you, that's all right! And now you can have me removed to the hospital!" Before the men came to fetch him, Singley managed to add to his list: No. 848. Our war-correspondent, Singley, mortally wounded by a Japanese shell. Hail Columbia! Then he closed his book and put it in his breast pocket. Five minutes later two ambulance men carried him off to have his wounds attended to, and in the evening he was conveyed to the hospital. A week later Captain Lange's snapshot of the war-correspondent was paraded in the _New York Herald_ as the dramatic close of Singley's journalistic career. In his way he, too, had been a hero. He died in the hospital at Salubria. He could claim the credit of having made the war plain to those at home. Or was that not the war after all? Were the black shadows on the photographic plate anything more than what is left of a flower after the botanist has pressed the faded semblance of its former self between the leaves of his collection? Certainly not much more. No, that is not war. Just a bursting--silently bursting shell, the scattering of a company--that is not war.