“They’ve got a nest there,” was the cry from our men. “Let’s rout ’em out!” Twenty of our best marksmen took advantageous positions to pick off their men, while our light arms and machine-guns sprayed them with an intense fire. It was but a little time before they had enough of it; and those who could do so got away, while others came out with uplifted hands crying “Kamerad!” They had been told that the Americans were savage, and would shoot them without mercy, and some of them believed it. During our morning’s march, Muddy, who had been following closely at my heels, flew out after the Boches that were hustling to get away and, without a yelp or bark, ran so that we couldn’t see his tail for the dust. I did not see him again until afternoon, when he came crouching in apology with his tail at half-mast. I had whistled to call him back, but he either would not hear or would not heed. What did it mean? As I was in command of the platoon I had other duties and could give little thought to a dog. Twice later that afternoon we met with fitful opposition from the enemy, and it was late before we reached the village whose red-tiled houses, as we have before mentioned, we had seen in the distance. “That looks good,” said our captain. “Possibly we can halt there for the night, unless we have to fight for it.” As we approached the village there burst forth from in front and on both sides of us the chatter of machine-guns and rifle fire, as if to say, “Stand off! we are here!” Some of us took shelter behind a rise in the land and fired upon them, while others circled around the village. Then their fire began gradually to die away. “Gee!” said Goodwin, “you’s can just bet your bottom dollar they’s litin’ out.” “No chance to bag your rabbits, Sam,” said Sutherland sarcastically. “They won’t stop to say good-bye.” And they didn’t. We had opened a hot fire and then by making sudden rushes and throwing ourselves on our faces and firing had driven them out. It was an old method, used by the regulars in fighting Indians; but it answered. “I have no respect for the Boches any more,” said Sam, “except as runners.” But therein he was wrong. They were fighting a rear-guard fight, and were not only acting in a prudent way, but also under orders. A few people, old men, women, and children, who had been sheltering themselves as best they could in cellars and behind thick walls, came out and greeted us with French enthusiasm. It was quite embarrassing for Sutherland when one sweet-faced old woman threw her arms around his neck in a fervent embrace. He was awkward in receiving her hug, but at last recovering from surprise, he patted her and told her not to cry. When one attempted to hug and kiss the doughty Sam Jenkins, instead of bravely standing fire he turned and ran.