That afternoon, as the captains were summoned to receive their detailed orders, the greatest excitement prevailed everywhere. Orders are not revealed to the men and non-commissioned officers until the time has arrived to carry them into effect. But there was no longer any concealing the fact that activities of tremendous import were imminent, and all down the lines, as men examined their accoutrements, the word passed and was repeated, “We’re going in.” And finally some bright mind hit upon a recollection, and thenceforth there was no further doubt as to the day of the advance; only the hour was in doubt. On September 12, 1914, the Germans, at tremendous sacrifice in their first drive toward Paris, had established the St. Mihiel salient. It had been held steadily ever since, and on this September 10, 1918, it was within two days of that fourth anniversary. It would be fitting punishment that the Huns should begin to suffer retribution on the very day when they might be expected to be feeling as boastful as only a German can. Yes, there was no doubt about it in any man’s mind. They were going to attack on September 12th. And so, with this almost definite assurance in mind, the preparations went forward with even renewed vigor and anticipation. No need to urge the men. They worked as boys would for a holiday. The rain, which continued with only slight and infrequent abatement, was no annoyance, was hardly even noticed now. The big work for which they had prepared for months—first in America, then in England, and finally behind the lines in France—was now at hand. Their mettle was to be tested against the Boche. Their numbers, their ability, their courage were to be thrown into the world contest of Liberty against Autocracy. “Do you remember how you used to feel just before we went into a game against an eleven that we knew to be at least our own weight?” Ollie breathed to Tom and George, as the three of them were completing the last essentials to a critical inspection. “Sure do,” replied Tom, the biggest and heaviest of the three, “and I never put on a head-piece with greater anticipation than I do this,” and he clamped his heavy helmet on as though the battle already were under way. In a muffled voice Harper wanted to know how his gas mask became him, and if really, after all, he wasn’t the long-sought missing link. There is a cheerfulness about men about to go into battle that only those who have been through it can understand—a thrilling of every nerve that makes one jest, even though death may be stalking only a few yards or a few hours ahead—a forgetfulness of all else but the determined will to fight to the last, and to win.