This is an expression of the men on the Western Front when they have a premonition that their time on earth is short. A sudden fear smote me, but I banished the thought and started jollying him profanely. "Now, Corporal, you know what damn nonsense it is to talk that way! Do you want to wish it on yourself?" "No, Grant, I should say not, but I can't help thinking it, all the same." "Yes, Lawrence," said McLean. "For God's sake don't wish any trouble on us more than we have got." Billy McLean was my dearest pal; we had enlisted together and had formed one of those attachments that men sometimes make and is only severed by death, and we shared each other's most intimate thoughts. The words had scarcely died on McLean's lips when--Woo-o-f! Bang! Bang! and shells commenced to land all about us. The spot we had selected to rest on was under observation; Fritz had evidently become aware of the fact that it was our usual course in coming to the trench and had registered the place for a target, just as he registered battery roads, ammunition depots, railway heads, sleeping quarters,--everywhere and anywhere that exhibited a trace of life immediately became an observation target and was subject to a hail of shell and shrapnel any hour of the day or night. We were all slightly stunned by the dose, but recovered our senses in a minute or so. "All right, fellows, let's be going," I said, and up we jumped, all except Lawrence. "Come on, Corporal, finish your dream in the dugout." He made no reply. With a sickening at my heart I went over and put my hand on his face; it was wet with his life's blood; he was shot through the head. As hurriedly and as gently as possible we laid him in a hollow place and started for the ridge; we had no time for even a prayer, as we were being treated to a fair-sized fusillade, and ducking and dodging, this way and that, we made our way to the top as quickly as every ounce of energy left in our legs would permit, and rolled, tumbled, scrambled and fell--any old way--down the front side of the ridge into the ditch at the bottom, that was dignified by the high-sounding title of trench. It was as much a trench at that spot as any bog-hole. Its only virtue lay in the fact that if we crouched low enough into the water and mud we could escape the watchful eye of the enemy. We stumbled along through the inky blackness toward our gun positions, shrinking our anatomy to its smallest dimensions each time a flare shot up, and I was commencing to congratulate myself that we would reach our destination without any further hurt than the elimination of the thirteenth man;--I took a sort of sad comfort in the superstitious thought;--but we had still another target to pass. The Germans had made an observation point of a part of our ditch just a little bit farther along, and when we got to the spot we received a blast of shell fire that knocked us out of even our power