On came the men in gray-green, probably a full regiment of infantry, including a dozen machine-gun squads. They marched well, these sons of the Fatherland, and they were mostly young and vigorous-looking men, presenting not the slightest suggestion of weariness, nor of being underfed. But there was not a word spoken among them; the entire number was as obedient to evident orders as though possessing but one brain and as the soldiers filed along the valley and around the little hill, past and not fifty yards away from the position of the hidden Americans, they reminded Herbert of so many automatons. Thus they entered the ranks, were taught and trained, and thus they fought, a wonderfully coördinated whole, but without individual incentive. The boy understood, as never before, how it was that the German army was at once so remarkably pliable and effective in strategic movement and yet he had seen that in battle the Huns were readily disconcerted when confronted with conditions foreign to their teaching and understanding. Tramp, tramp, tramp. The boys were indeed marching, but they were not the sort of boys, nor did they have the end in view that made them, as in the old song, pleasant to contemplate by those twelve Americans up among the rocks within hailing distance, but as yet unsuspected by the Huns. That muffled jarring of the earth from many tramping men would haunt Don Richards’ memory as long as he lived. But perhaps he would need to remember it but a very short time, for how could the little band fail being discovered, and Herbert had declared they would die fighting. So be it; Don for one would stick by his friend. There was a sharp command given to the marching men below. Instantly the nearest footfalls ceased, though beyond the little hill they were heard to go on and on, the sound growing fainter; then ceasing. More commands given to those near by and a general confusion of breaking ranks ensued; the unslinging of equipment followed. Herbert, his eye against the slit between two boulders, felt a momentary sinking at the heart when he realized that this company, at the rear of the column, was separating from the others of its unit and was stopping here, perhaps for breakfast, or to rest; probably it had been night marching. For how long could the Yank squad remain undiscovered? And remaining so, would it not be a veritable torture within this narrow defile, hardly able to change position? Well, for grit and determination, in any event Whitcomb knew he could rely on the squad; there were none better nor more loyal; no better shots in the whole Army.