Up the slopes of the hill he could now see the indomitable marines, still charging, overcoming all opposition, destroying the machine-gun nests, bayoneting the gunners, and defeating every attempt of the enemy to check their attack. On into the fields--to the very foot of the hill--Don drove his car, looking to the right and left for _blessés_. The bullets, as never before, sung around him, threshing out the grass and grain, and tearing up the blood-red poppies. Here also the stretcher-bearers were more than busy. Two, with a wounded man, came running to Don. Another wounded man crawled and dragged himself toward the car, until the boy saw and helped him. The soldier could speak only in halting accents. “There’s one--our corporal--down back--bush. Helped me--water--canteen. Fainted, then--good fellow--get him.” Don, fishing in his pockets for his ammonia spirits and grabbing a water bottle, ran to the spot designated, a hundred feet away. The marine lay on his stomach, his face hidden in the crook of his left arm. Evidently he had come to. The other arm lay limp on the grass. A clot of blood stained the clothing on his left side. “_Ambulancier_ here. I’ll help you, or get a stretcher if you can’t--” Don began, stooping to lift the fellow. The wounded man twisted about, raised his head and once again Don Richards and Clement Stapley gazed into each other’s eyes. But the look of defiance was gone. “Clem, poor chap, are you hurt much? Where?” “Arm busted, Don. Side cut a little. Flesh wound, I think. If it’s worse, tell mother and dad.” “I don’t believe it’s bad, Clem. Don’t you think it! We’ll see that it isn’t. My car--” “I can walk to it, perhaps. Legs O. K. Use gun as crutch.” “No; I’ll help you; carry you, if need be. Get your good arm over my shoulder.” “That’ll bring you on the side where the bullets--” “Well, what of that? I don’t--” “No, you don’t care, but I do, Don. If I get another it’s only one--but you--” “Never mind! Come on. You know I always have my way. Your arm around my neck.” With painful laboriousness the two began to walk across. They had gone a dozen feet when Clem heard the sound of a bullet striking flesh. He had heard it too often not to know it. But Don did not hear it. He only sank to the ground. Clem struggled to maintain his footing but fell beside him. CHAPTER XXI DISTINGUISHED “Not killed, are you, Don?” No answer. “Done for! And just when we had become friends,” Clem murmured. But upon the instant an arm that he had been unconsciously lying across gave a twitch. Clem lifted himself and looked into the other boy’s face. “Hey, Don! You’re not dead, are you?” Don Richards opened his eyes. “If I am, it’s right comfortable, except something’s the matter with my shoulder. Was I hit? Oh yes; sure, I know. I came over to help you; didn’t I? Then I got mine. Head feels queer. Must have gone to sleep. Knocked out, eh?”