“Where’s Jot?” I asked. Then, seeing that they didn’t understand I added, “Lieutenant Nickerson, I mean?” No reply was given. “Can you walk?” some one asked. “I guess I can,” I answered; “I came over here with a man over my shoulder. I can walk.” “I think,” said Sutherland, “that I had better carry you pig-a-back; these trenches are too narrow for a stretcher. There’s a bullet hole in the breast of your coat. You are shot.” “Nonsense!” I said, “I can walk; but I have an awful sore spot under my vest pocket; something knocked the breath out of me for a spell.” Arriving at the first aid station, with Sutherland’s help, my upper clothing was stripped off and out fell a bullet! It had struck my watch, broken the crystal, smashed the works, and left a big dent in the case, almost half as deep as a thimble. It was directly over my heart. The watch had saved my life. It had been my father’s watch, presented to him by his company in the Civil War. “Carry him to the Clearing Station,” I heard some one say. In attempting to get up from my seat after the examination, I fell again. I fancied that I heard the Surgeon say, “Collapse!” Then, once more, everything faded, and next I found myself in a white still place with many cots. It was a hospital. “What’s the matter, doctor?” I inquired; “what’s happened to me?” “Bad collapse; need rest. I wonder you did not drop dead, carrying a man on your shoulder across No Man’s Land after that hurt.” One unpleasant fact was evident to me, and that was, I was in the clutches of a surgeon. I always did hate doctors. I got up, looked in a little mirror to smooth my hair, and started back to see a pale face looking out at me. I turned to go out of the door, but was confronted by a blue-eyed Red Cross nurse and a burly attendant. “Let me alone,” I protested, “I want to see how my friend, Lieutenant Nickerson, got out of the fight.” The nurse pointed, as a reply, to a near-by cot where a still form lay. “What’s the matter!” I exclaimed, striding to the cot. “Who is it?” I needed no answer, it was Jot. “What’s the matter?” I again cried. “Is he dead?” “No,” said the surgeon; “only stunned; concussion of the brain from a heavy blow. He will be all right with proper attention, after a while.” “How did he get here?” “Why, don’t you know?” he answered. “They said that _you_ brought him across No Man’s Land almost on a run.” Thus it was I came to know that the comrade I had brought back into our trench was my friend, Jot. I stayed in the hospital for several days, during which time they fed me on light stuff, as though I were an infant, instead of a full-sized doughboy, and I was losing strength. I wouldn’t have stayed there contentedly that long, but to assure myself of Jot’s recovery. Then I kicked. “There is nothing the matter with me, doctor, except I am faint with hunger. I shall starve unless you give me something man’s size to eat!”