I couldn’t make myself feel brave when I thought of taking part in the impending attack; though I had schooled myself to stolid determination to get killed, rather than to let my comrades know that I was scared. Pride is often a good substitute for courage. With all my fears and dread, my mind was clear, possibly because of the stimulant of danger. But I saw too many unpleasant possibilities. A vivid imagination is sometimes an inconvenient possession for a soldier. All at last was ready. Short ladders had been placed all along the parapet, and rude stairways made of stakes were prepared, so that the men could quickly go over the top of the trenches. An hour before the coming attack we were moved to the front trench while others filled the connecting trenches, ready to follow us over the top. It was in the gray hours of morning,--about four o’clock I should judge,--while the guns were still belching over us, that the shrill whistle of command sounded for advance. And up and over we went! To my surprise, I was less frightened than when contemplating the danger. My mind worked with peculiar clearness as we went forward at quick time towards the enemy under their heavy fire from machine-guns and rifles. I saw men fall as though they had stumbled over a stone. One hundred and fifty yards is not a great distance, but it is a long way to travel under fire, at least it seemed a long way to me. As we neared the hostile trenches their entire front lit up with red flame from machine-guns and rifles. Humming bullets, fierce screams, hoarse attempts at cheers, guttural shouts, the clatter of machine-guns, all blended in one demoniac roar as we piled over into the enemy’s trench. The foe at first resisted, but at last yielded before the impetuous assault of our bayonets and fell back through their communicating trenches. I saw one sticking out his head from behind a traverse as much as to say, “I am at home.” Another big German, swinging his rifle by the barrel for a club, confronted me. I fended with my rifle barrel, lunged, and down he went! Then a confused mingling of men and sounds impossible to describe succeeded. I was struck by some projectile and found myself wondering what had happened to me. Then came the shrill whistle for retirement. I struggled up and, but for a little faintness and an aching place under my vest, was myself again. While comrades were climbing out of the trench, and I was about to follow, my foot struck a prostrate form. It stirred slightly. I was excitedly anxious to get back to our lines, but could not leave a wounded comrade in the hands of the enemy. Picking up the man I threw him over my shoulder, climbed painfully over the parapet and across the shell-pitted ground. But on reaching our trench, my memory lapsed, and down I sank with my burden. My first thought on recovering was of Jot. I had caught but one transient glimpse of him during the fight.