It is something that we call typically American that a number of men under a stress and in an emergency like this, should get together, choose their own leaders and obey them implicitly for the common good. These four men are Americans of the type we are proudest of. Yet it is worth noting that three out of the four were born in an island whose inhabitants, we are often told, are unfit for self-government. As for Dick O’Neill, he is one hundred per cent American, but it would take a braver man than I can claim to be to tell Dick O’Neill that he is not Irish, too. One of the members of D Company who was wounded in this spot was Matt Sullivan, an old-timer, and a kindly pleasant man who always took an interest in the younger lads, so that he was known as “Pop.” His two special protégés were Barney Friedman and George Johnson. When he was hit he was ordered to the rear, but he said, “I’ll not stir out o’ this till I see if the children are safe, God bless them.” He hobbled around in the gray dawn until he found the boys and then started for the rear. Company I had a number of little battle pictures to give me besides those I have already written. One was of Barney Farley, who was busy all morning dressing wounds, and after he had stopped the flow of blood, before picking up his man, he would roll a cigarette, stick it in the wounded man’s mouth with a cheery “Here, take a pull out of this, avic. It’ll do ye good.” Mike Lenihan, wounded while on the hill and told to go back, said, “No, I’ve waited so long to get at them I won’t lave this hill.” Another shot got him, and he was carried off. Tom Shannon, being carried in, got off his stretcher and wanted to give his place to another man who, he said, was worse wounded than himself. An officer ordered him back on the stretcher and he was carried in, and since then I have heard he has died of his wounds. William Cleary, wounded in the shoulder, refused to leave without orders, so they led him to where Captain Ryan was lying in a shell hole, himself wounded. The Captain looked up at him. “You’ve got a bad wound. No use around here. You’re young—got good color in your face—live long. Got good legs yet—run like hell.” The Captain saw a German near the top of the hill who was using an automatic, and he wanted to try a shot at him, so he borrowed Pat Flynn’s rifle, fired and missed, the pain of the recoil disconcerting his aim. He tried again; then he said: “I’m going to pull the last bit of Irish in me together and get that fellow.” With the last shot in the clip he got him.