In those woods, it was merely a question of who could throw enough lead to keep the other fellow’s head down; and at this game our Chauchats had the chance of the proverbial snowball. With Sgts. Reid, Lehy, Fahey and Levy, the right flank, which had been disorganized and driven in with the D Co. outposts, was re-formed, and a firing line built up at right angles to our front to face our new foes. The enemy in front was pouring in a hot fire; we could not encircle the enemy machine guns to the right because of that belt of wire behind us. Meanwhile those same machine guns were enfilading our main line along the ridge. Our only chance was a frontal attack on them. First we tried a series of rushes. I realized then exactly what was meant by “fire superiority,” and the enemy certainly had it. One Chauchat ran out of ammunition. The other was in Cocker’s hands, and he used it well until it jammed. He worked at it desperately for several minutes, as he advanced with the line; then he threw it up against a tree in disgust, crying bitterly “That’s a hell of a thing to give a man to fight with.” From then on we had only our rifle fire against their leaden hailstorm. Neither side could aim their shots, but they were shooting twenty bullets to our one, and our hastily formed line was driven back. As they retired, Sgt. Fahey and I, with two other men, tried to sneak up along the top of the ridge and get close enough to bomb one of the machine guns. We were lucky at first, the enemy being busy with his bullets further down the slope. We saw four Germans, carrying ammunition ahead of us, but held our fire, hoping they would lead on to their gun. Fahey slipped me a bomb, and I pulled the pin, ready to throw. Just then a new devil’s tattoo broke out about fifty yards away to our left, and the bullets came showering about our ears. They must have caught sight of us through some opening in the trees, and were probably waiting for just such an attempt. One of our patrol was riddled through the stomach and back, and started crawling back on one hand and his knees, with strange, shrill moans like a wounded animal. The other was killed instantly. Fahey and I looked in each other’s eyes for a startled moment; each, I think, wondering why the other was not killed. A bullet went through the tube of my gas mask, as I noticed later. Fahey lifted his eyebrows and pointed at the new gun. I nodded, and we started for it. But the first gun’s crew heard the cries of the wounded man, and traversed back and forth by us. Fahey staggered, shot through the chest. We could not see to throw a bomb, and it would probably hit a branch and light on us anyhow. Our slender chance vanished, and we slipped back through the trees.