It is very hard to pick out definitely any single name and exclaim “Here is the Hero!” Not that that man would not be a hero, but that he is not the only hero, and definite naming of some seems to exclude all the rest. If this book shows anything, it shows that in the horrors of the vast conflagration—in the terrible, awe-inspiring strain of the fighting on earth and on water, and underneath, and above—practically all the millions involved proved themselves heroes. Many of them found no chance to show their valor in lone ventures, and not all of them lost the lives they were so ready to give up. But they were heroes—all of them—though no papers heralded in brave headlines their deeds of glory, and no medals shine forth the commendation of the superior officers. All we need to see is the mud-stained uniform—and that look in the eye. This book is really a dedication to the innumerable heroes we do not name—heroes to be perhaps ever nameless in human documents. It is hard even where men were given the opportunity for individual bravery to pick them out. Official records are brief, and, in the main, the men themselves refuse to tell. But _Scribner’s Magazine_ has uncovered one of these hard-to-get heroes. He calls himself Lieutenant “Z.,” and it is only between the lines that we read of his endless sacrifice, courage, and death-defying accomplishments. The story is taken from letters written by him in the trenches. At the very beginning of the war he had enlisted as a trooper in a newly-formed cavalry regiment. All winter they waited to be called to action. Spring came—and yet no call or need for horsemen. They therefore volunteered to dismount, and were sent to Flanders. He himself joined the “Bombing Squad.” [Illustration: © _New York Herald._ Forward With Hand Grenades A strong arm, a keen eye, and a disregard for danger are the requisites for the man who throws grenades or bombs.] Bomb throwing, he soon found, is “quite a ticklish business, needing care and accuracy. A badly thrown bomb may kill one’s own men remarkably easily, and in the hands of inexperienced men I should call them good allies for the Germans.” But his own efficiency speaks for itself. In some ten days the records named him as wounded, and he writes a hasty letter home to say that he is well. “My wound is only a scratch on the arm,” he complains, “and I did not show it to the doctor until our return to these billets. It is ridiculous to return me as ‘wounded.’ LIVING NINE PINS