With a howl of rage and pain the fellow began to yell “Kamarad! Kamarad!” but Tom had experienced enough by this time to know that his own life was not safe there so long as that treacherous German remained able to inflict an injury upon him. Pinning the German’s gun arm down to the ground, Tom suddenly raised his head, and as suddenly lowered it again and with all his weight smashed into the Boche’s face, billy-goat fashion. With a string of gutteral sounds which Tom took to be oaths, his enemy tried in vain to avoid this new attack. It was an entirely new brand of fighting to him, and what was worse in view of his whole training, he was fast in close quarters and could not hit and run. Before he had fully recovered from this last shock Tom had managed to draw his own gun. He fired, but without time for any deliberate aim. The German was just raising his own revolver, but his arm dropped back limp and his eyes rolled up into his head. With a shudder—for he had not yet become accustomed to seeing men die—Tom suddenly leaned forward, a feeling of sorrow overcoming him, despite himself. But there was no need of asking questions. The German was no longer a menace to any man. The bullet had hit him almost directly over the heart, and his death had been instantaneous. Further consideration was cut short, however, when the sergeant crawled over to the same shell hole. “I’ve reported to the major,” he said, “and there’s no use of our attempting to go further alone. Be ready for a sudden rush attack and join in. What’s that you’ve got there?” he asked, suddenly becoming aware of the German under Tom. “He’s done,” came the even answer. “He tried to get me first when I rolled in here, and we had quite a set-to, but I was just a little quicker on the trigger than he was.” “Good!” the sergeant exclaimed, and then, in the same breath, “Our fellows are coming now. Be ready to jump out when they’re about alongside. We’re going to take that wood and every living German in it.” And as the sergeant a few seconds later gave the word, Tom leapt out and joined in the rush upon the wood. As he did so he saw Ollie Ogden coming along with the rest. But he looked in vain for his Brighton friend and fellow scout, George Harper. He was nowhere about. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER VII THE BATTLE IN THE WOOD WEARIED as they were with the long hours of fighting, preceded by a night of the most nerve-racking vigil and anticipation, those lads went across that intervening space and into the very jaws of death as though it was their customary exercise before breakfast each morning—went singing, shouting and cheering, oblivious to danger, seeing only a duty to perform in the quickest possible way.