PUT your guns low in the niches, instead of on top of the rocks; that keeps your heads lower. See your front sights fine and shoot low, low, low! Don’t over aim! Make every shot count! But don’t fire until the word is given, or it is necessary! This may mean the end, anyway, fellows, but if so, we’ll make it a glorious one and our memory--it will do some good; leave a record behind of what Americans can do.” So spoke Lieutenant Whitcomb, crawling about among the squad, as a platoon of Huns approached the position and rifle and machine-gun bullets began cutting through the spruce branches, flattening or ricocheting with a singing whir against the rocks. After the first deluge of fire, lasting perhaps twenty minutes, the Germans, unable to note a result, or to bring an answering shot, determined to know something of their enemy. And so, quickly chosen by lot, eight or ten soldiers rapidly drew near, carrying hand grenades and rifles and the eight or ten--they were not counted--died when half way up the hill. Whereupon the entire platoon, with fixed bayonets, charged. And then quick work was needed. Herbert called out: “The Browning! Give it to ’em, McNabb! Sweep the line! Hold your rifle fire, boys, until I say ‘now’--now, fire! Shoot low; low! Don’t miss! Steady! Keep cool! They mustn’t reach us! Never!” They did not. In the face of a stream of machine gun bullets that scored fearfully from one end of the line of men to the other and back again, seeking spots untouched, and rifle bullets that counted a far higher percentage of hits than the Hun knew how to score, the enemy wavered, stopped, fell back, hunted cover and at once a messenger was sent for more men. This fellow started up the valley and Don, knowing what Herbert could do with a rifle, now shouted: “Don’t let him go, Herb! Stop him from getting away!” To make a shot of the kind the marksman had to rise a little to have a clear sight over the rocks and among the trees and he had to choose his time. The others of the squad, the few who could see the hastening German messenger, watched him. The crack of the rifle occurred simultaneously with the collapse of two of those thus noted; the ambling Hun went down and lay still; the lieutenant, his weapon slipping from his hand, gave a little gasp and lay back as quietly as though merely tired. Don, the corporal and Gill saw his white face and crawled to him. He was insensible; across his temple there was a blue-black scar, but not a sign of blood. “Stunned only,” Don said, in a relieved voice. “I thought he was killed. He’ll come to in a minute. Be all right, I think.” The boy had seen more than one similar case of glancing blow when in the Red Cross service. “Thank the good Lord!” Farnham said again. “He got it just as he pulled trigger; a dozen bullets came over his way, but he got his man with one bullet; did you see that? He’s one dandy shot! Best I ever did see, or ever expect to.” So enthused the corporal.