There was double reason for this confidence. The Americans had already been performing most creditably within the sector about Château-Thierry. A few days before a strong detachment of American regular troops had withstood an attack of the enemy at Veuilly Wood, nine miles north of the Marne, and had driven them back. The day following a detachment of machine gunners had held the approaches to the bridges across the Marne, connecting the north and the south towns of Château-Thierry itself and prevented the Huns from crossing, while a battalion of Americans, supporting French artillery that was pounding the Huns in the northern end of the town, captured and wiped out more than their number of Germans who had managed to gain the south bank by pontoons. On the same day the Third and Twenty-eighth Divisions of U. S. regulars, commanded by a French officer, had defeated the enemy in his attempt to make a crossing of the Marne at Jaulgonne, a few miles east of Château-Thierry, and had driven him back to his former positions. But all these battles, relatively small actions in themselves, had been fought according to European methods, and had been directed by French generals and aided by French infantry and artillery. The action now about to take place was to be that of the Americans alone, under American staff direction, and the boys were going into it tickled with the idea of being allowed in their own way to get a whack at the Huns. Corporal Stapley, as he trudged along with his squad, thought of a good many things of a rather solemn nature, though not once did he permit a hint of this to bother his fellows. The next in line was a wag named Giddings, but Clem noted that the youth was very quiet now, and that his face was pale. With a laugh Clem turned to the fellow: “Say, Gid, it’s a fine day for this little picnic.” “Wonder when the strawberries and ice cream will be served,” Giddings remarked and Clem knew that no matter how the young man really felt he was game. The corporal glanced down the line; there were other pale faces and set lips, but there were also smiles and laughter. One man struck up a song, with words and music _ad libitum_: “Where do we go from here, boys, Where do we go from here? To punch the Hun Like a son-of-a-gun. It’ll be some fun To make him run And get his bun And take his mon. Oh, hi, yi, that’s where we’ll go from here!” Some joined in. Laughter broke out down the line. One chap began to whistle the Sailor’s Hornpipe and another, in a deep bass voice, tried to put impromptu words to it, after the manner of the popular version concerning “de debbil,” but without much poetic success: “Did you ever see the Heinie With his skin all black and spiny A-diggin’ in the trenches With his big toe nail?”