The Boche came on in two waves, one behind the other, and were met by the deadly, coolly-directed machine-gun fire and the well-aimed rifles of our sharpshooters. Still they came on, got possession of one small part of our entrenchment between two traverses, and tried to drive our men down the trenches by enfilading them with machine-gun fire. But they were driven back again with losses in dead, wounded, and prisoners. The dark clouds that had hung over the scene during the fight cleared. The sun came out and as it neared the horizon, like a great disk of blood, the dark smoke drifted away, revealing the scene in our front. There a score of mortally wounded and dead lay. When we took stock of our losses, we found them slight. One of our first lieutenants was wounded, two privates killed, and five wounded, two of them but slightly, and two missing. I was so fortunate as to receive praise from my captain for what he called my “coolness and courage.” But, I must confess the truth, I was at first woefully frightened but tried not to show it. I have since learned that though big gun fire makes an alarming sound, it also makes a good many holes in the air without touching a head; and that the most fatal effects in battle are more often from well-aimed machine-gun fire and rifles. After a battle, when the enemy has been successfully met, there comes a feeling of exaltation among its defenders. The French officers were generous in praise of us, while our captain said, “You made a good fight, and I am proud of every one of you.” Colonel Burbank also was generous in his praise. “It is your baptism of fire as soldiers that you will never forget, and can remember with pride,” he stated. When I remembered my trembling knees and the sick feeling at the pit of my stomach, I doubted if any of the praise belonged to me, but concluded not to mention it. Peter Beaudett, who was wounded severely in the arm and had first aid, said, with a wink at Quinn, as though he had good fortune instead of a wound, “By gar! It means to me a bed and much clean sheets.” “Shure,” replied our ever disputing Quinn, “and it may mane a doctor’s saw,” and then seeing by his wounded comrade’s face that his remark was cutting deeper than he intended, added more softly, “a pretty Red Cross nurse and a vacation. An’ I almost wish it was meself that was in your place.” Our lieutenant was more severely wounded than was at first thought and we learned that it was the opinion of the surgeons that it would be a long time, if ever, before he was able to resume his duties with the company. Here let me, unwillingly, record the fact that Muddy did not prove to be a hero. When the racket began, he tucked his tail between his legs and with a whine and an apologetic look at me over his shoulder, scampered off in a most unheroic manner.