Once a German aero battle fleet that a few months before would have been considered the most formidable fighting unit that ever took the air, sailed forward as if to engage the American gunners and pilots in a struggle; but either their courage failed them or better judgment prevailed, for there was a quick signal from the leader of the group, and with greater speed than they had approached they turned and fled toward their own lines. “Fritz isn’t feeling very well this morning,” the irrepressible “Buck” Granger shouted, and a merry shout arose from the men who were within hearing of the remark. And, indeed, it seemed to be the truth. Fritz was getting some of his own medicine, and apparently he considered it a rather bitter dose. The smoke ahead began to dissipate itself in the brisk early morning breeze, and the men had their first realization that the firing behind them had almost ceased. In subdued voices the officers were now counselling their men to use all reasonable precaution; and indeed the orders were necessary, for the lads, now this far upon their errand of victory, were ready to plunge ahead, regardless of all hazards. And then in another instant the whole thing was on. Tom did not hear the order given. As he thought the thing over afterward, he wondered if any actual order had been uttered. It was a matter of doubt, not only with himself, but with many other of the men. But after all that was a matter of only secondary moment. They were in—those men in the first wave of shock companies—and now they were racing like mad toward where the enemy lay waiting. They were within fifty yards of the wood which was their immediate objective when they suddenly were made aware that it was a veritable wasp’s nest of hidden machine guns. With disconcerting unison they began to spit their bullets at the American lines, and the men, trained to just such a contingency, fell flat upon their stomachs with such alacrity that none could tell which or how many had been killed or wounded by this first defense of the hidden Huns. The machine guns continued their murderous sput-sput-sput, but the range was over the heads of the men as they stealthily edged forward, now in scattered, zig-zag line. Tom saw George Harper train his gun upon the thick foliage of a near tree, and, almost on the instant that he fired, a huge German came toppling through the branches and to the ground. “Number one,” Harper muttered, with set jaw. But another sharp-shooter had picked him out, and he had hardly said the words when a bullet flattened itself against his helmet with such force as to drive it down over his eyes. A sergeant crawled past where Tom and Ollie were scraping their way forward. “I want three men to go with me to get that nearest machine gun nest,” he whispered, “you two come along.”