[Illustration: NOW THE WEAPON BARKED ITS PROTEST] “Kamerad! Kamerad!” they shouted and there followed a string of words in their unmusical tongue. In a moment three Americans were at the top of the rocks and Herbert said: “Gaylord, you’ve had your hand hit, eh? Hurt much? Too bad, old man, but that won’t put you out of the fight, will it? Thought not; knew you’re the right stuff. Merritt, you hold these fellows until I tie up Gaylord’s hand.” A rapid job of first aid was made to a by no means serious wound; then there were further orders. “Lucky it’s your left hand. Now then, leave your gun here; your automatic will be sufficient to induce these chaps to go ahead of you to the rear. Turn them over to the guard and get fixed up, old man. I’ll bring your gun along if you don’t come back for it.” “I’ll be back, Lieutenant and find it. Come along, you Dutchies! Start ’em, Merritt. Now then, march!” “Come on, Merritt, we’ll catch up with the rest of our bunch,” Herbert said, well satisfied with what had just taken place, but glancing woefully at the inert German lying among the rocks. The lieutenant climbed down to the bottom of the little hill, his soldier after him; they reached the more level ground, parting the branches ahead before proceeding. A flash and the crack of a gun almost in Herbert’s ear, the poking of the muzzle of another weapon through a thick clump of bushes all but in the young officer’s face. Quickly he stooped low with bending knees and at the very same instant a mauser blazed forth its fire, tearing away his hat. The boy fired his pistol directly in line with and beneath the enemy’s weapon and the rifle fell among the bushes. Herbert was about to rise when down on top of him came the weight of a falling man. He caught Merritt in his arms, straightened up, then saw that his khaki-clad comrade’s face was ghastly and that he was unconscious. Something warm, sticky, dark spread over the lieutenant’s hands and with a gasp the soldier lay still. Herbert had liked Merritt, a boy only, no older than himself; thoughtful, studious, delightfully versatile, a writer of beautiful verses, many of which had been published, as had also some of his songs. Here was a youth of great promise, but war, red war, was surely no respecter of persons. “They’ve got to find him and get him out of here, and save him,” Herbert said aloud, at the same time looking sharply about to see if any more Hun muzzles were being poked through the leafy screen. The boy tenderly placed his comrade on the ground, gazed apprehensively for a moment at the white face, then turned to find someone to go seek stretcher bearers, if such were yet near.