“Give ’im the hook! Give ’im the hook!” came a chorus of advice from lusty members of Company C, and Ollie, interpreting the hook to mean the pointed instrument otherwise known as a bayonet, on the end of his rifle, proceeded to follow instructions. It was rather a vicious jab, which made the German suddenly draw himself in at the rear and expand in the stomach in a most ridiculous manner. “Gott in Himmel, kamarad!” he shouted in a voice that could be heard above the thunder of cannon and the cracking of rifles. He was purple in the face, his breath was coming in sharp snorts, and what strength he had left he was exhausting in vain efforts to swing his rifle back to knock Ollie from his perch. In his final vicious lunge the gun slipped from his hands and went skimming through the air, narrowly missing the heads of several of the German prisoners. “Kam—kam—,” he gasped, but he hadn’t breath to finish the word. He tried to buck again, his knees weakened and folded under him, and Ollie, seeing what was coming, leaned far back and gave a sudden thrust of his weight forward. The German pitched headlong and with a terrible grunt hit the ground, Ollie still astride him. For several seconds he lay there gasping in utter helplessness, and then he rolled over, almost frothing at the mouth in his rage and humiliation. He started to shake a fist at Ollie, and a sergeant gently rested his bayonet on his chest. “Come on, Prince,” he ordered, to another gale of laughter. “You can show us some new steps on the way to the rear of the line. Barnum and Bailey want you.” The big fellow rose to his feet, and suddenly spying one of his fellow countrymen grinning, gave him a slap across the face which sent him reeling. “Kamarad!” yelled an American youth mockingly, and the hostilities ended as swiftly as they had begun. The sergeant ordered two men to accompany the batch of prisoners to the rear, after all of them had been disarmed, and the last seen of Ollie’s bucking broncho whom the sergeant called Prince, he was leading the procession, glum but silent. “Don’t try that again,” the sergeant commanded, feeling impelled to administer some rebuke to the spirited young Ollie; but even as he spoke his mouth twitched suspiciously, and he turned suddenly to say something to another group of men. “No sergeant,” answered Ollie demurely, and a dozen soldiers grinned broadly, even as they brought their rifles up and started forward into the thick of the fire again. Why none of them had been hit while they stood forth as open targets, watching the strange performance which Ollie staged, remains one of those mysteries of Divine Providence. They were out in the broad open land beyond the wood now, and in the distance they could see what still remained standing of Thiaucourt, the objective for which they had fought so valiantly, and for the attaining of which so many of their brave comrades already had died.