There came a burst of artillery that defies description. It did not seem possible that an ant could live under such a destructive fire. Shell, shot, and shrapnel scarred the ground as though there had been a series of eruptions. Then the Germans charged our lines, their green-gray uniforms so blending with the smoke and rocks and ground, that it was difficult to see them. They were like so many fog banks or moving rocks or roads, so completely did their color intermingle with their surroundings. Our artillery from the rear laid down a barrage with a terrific deafening roar like locomotives traveling the air above us. And now came the bugle call--over the top and at them--for which we had impatiently waited. Our nervous American temperament wanted action; we were at our best in attack, rather than in defense. The enemy received us with a storm of machine-gun and artillery fire, under which, for a time, it seemed as though nothing could live. We made quick rushes forward, then throwing ourselves upon the ground with such protection as was afforded by the land, opened fire, and then another rush forward, again throwing ourselves upon our faces,--“sprayed them” as one of our men called it, with rifle and machine-gun fire. Again we rushed forward until we could plainly see our targets. We gave them the best we had. It was sharp work; and apparently the enemy were not used to our Indian tactics, and did not relish it. Still we did not have it easy. Men fell before their gun fire. Others limped out of line, and headed for the first aid stations. The confusion of sounds made it almost impossible to hear the bugle calls. The enemy gathered himself together and rushed upon us again, leaving a trail of dead and wounded behind, so effective was our sharp-shooting. Still they came on with a rush, as though expecting to scatter us by their impetus. Seeing that we were outnumbered, we fell back to a rise, leaving two machine-guns behind. “That won’t do! We need those guns!” called out Lieutenant Nickerson, who was in command of our platoon. With several others I rushed forward under the cover of smoke clouds and rescued them. But they were out of order, and for the time being could not be used. Lieutenant Nickerson, a little in the rear, with his old mechanical dexterity stooped to rearrange their parts. He soon had them on the firing line with some of his own men to work them. Getting more ammunition for them from the machine-gun unit, their steady clatter was again heard “spitting bullets,” as Sam said, like mad rattlesnakes. It was hot work! When our line wavered under the enemy’s concentrated fire, our lieutenant placed himself in front of his platoon, and looked sternly in the faces of his men, with an indescribable magnetism, which seemed to hold them to their desperate work.