“No,” Gerry said. “Are there many more American girls here?” he asked, gazing toward the German advance. “We’re each--or two of us together are taking a village to get the people out,” the girl said; and she named, at Gerry’s request, some of the girls and some of the villages. “Do you know Cynthia Gail?” he asked. “She was going back, the last I heard of her, to Mirevaux.” Gerry jerked. “Mirevaux must be taken now.” “I heard guns that way. That’s all I know,” the girl said. She raced her engine; Gerry knew she must go on. He left his prisoner in charge of a wounded English soldier who was able to walk and he returned to the machines in the middle of the field. The captured German airplane was too damaged to remove; so he set it afire and mounted in his own. The battle in the sky had moved off somewhere else long ago; neither in the air nor upon the ground was there engagement near him. He was without bombs but he still had machine-gun ammunition; he directed his course as he rose into the air toward the hamlet of Mirevaux. He could see it clearly from a few hundred feet in the sky--see shells, which must be from German guns, smashing on a hillside on the south and shells, which must be from an English battery, breaking about Mirevaux. These told that the Germans indeed were in the village and some force of English were maintaining themselves on the hill. He observed a road west of Mirevaux upon which appeared such a procession as that to which he had entrusted his prisoner. The English position, which the Germans were shelling, flanked this road and partially protected it; but Gerry could observe strong detachments, which must be German patrols, working about the English to the northwest and toward the road. The English could not see them; nor could the refugees on the road catch sight of them. Gerry sighted a small, black motor car moving with the processions. Another American girl was driving that, probably; or at least an American girl was somewhere down there--a girl with even, blue eyes which looked honestly and thoughtfully into one’s, a girl with glorious hair which one liked to watch in the sunlight and which tempted one to touch it, a girl with soft, round little shoulders which he had grasped, a girl who had gone into the sea for him, and whom he had carried, warm in his arms.