When I realized that this had really happened, I tried desperately to cross the wire to them again. But I was in too big a hurry, and made too much noise. The machine guns spotted me promptly, and streams of bullets made the sparks fly from the wire six feet ahead of me. Before I could work around to another place, I heard the sound of their withdrawal toward the German lines, and knew I was too late. My next job was to get back to the old outpost line and take charge there. The enemy machine gunners had penetrated well to our rear, and I had to go very cautiously, hearing their voices all around. They were withdrawing, however, and in ten minutes I found out why. Their artillery completed the day’s work by shelling the ravine and vicinity in their usual methodical manner. Not to be outdone, our own artillery did the same. This was the last straw; I was too dead tired to dodge American shells as well as German. So I crawled under a bush and waited for whatever was on the cards. In two minutes I dozed off, with the shells banging all around. I must have slept for about twenty minutes. Waking with a start, I found dusk setting in. I took off my tattered slicker and wound it around my tin hat, to keep the twigs from playing an anvil chorus on it. The shelling had stopped. My short rest had revived some interest in life, and I slowly retraced our advance of that morning. I didn’t think the enemy had left any outposts behind, but in any case was too tired to care, and went clumping along like any Heine. I arrived at our old outpost line, which we had held long, long ago, it seemed. It was absolutely deserted. I went along the path, past D Co.’s headquarters, and noticed that a shell had landed there and set off those pyrotechnic signals which had been quite fireproof two days before. Apparently the war had been called off around here. I pottered about for quite a bit, but could find no one. Somehow my principal feeling was an immense relief that for the present I had no responsibility, no one to look out for but myself. Presently, however, it was evident that as I had not even a runner, I had to go back to Bn. Hdq. myself and report on the situation. Wearily I plodded off, back over Dead Man’s Hill. It was quite dark, about 11 P. M., and I was making very slow time. As I drew near the main line of resistance, I came upon two D Co. men, lying where they had been hit by a shell. One was dead; the other had a leg shot off. He said he had been lying there for about three hours. His comrade had helped him tie up his leg before he died. I left my blouse over him, as it was chilly, and went on to the firing trench, which had wire in front of it by this time. I had some trouble convincing the occupants of my identity. In truth, with no blouse, my ragged slicker draped about my helmet, the shoulder of my shirt all torn and bloody, and my breeches and puttees in tatters, I didn’t look much like an officer, and not at all like a gentleman.