And not only was the shrapnel barrage sweeping over the one between the two contending forces, but there was a constant spray of machine-gun bullets, to say nothing of the fire from thousands of rifles. Smashes, bangs, roars, and rattles, together with cheers of encouragement, yells of defiance, and screams of sorely wounded men mingled in one awful, hideous maelstrom of noise as the battle continued. Jimmy Blaise led his small force onward, being directed, of course, by lieutenants, captains or majors in the advance. Two of Jimmy's squad were killed instantly by shrapnel, one on either side of him, and their blood spattered him. But he shut his teeth grimly and kept on. And yet in the midst of it all--even when he was fiercely yelling to his men to come on and while he fired his rifle until it was hot to his touch--he could not help thinking of his four Brothers. Where were they? Had they been wounded--killed, perhaps? Or were they still fighting and struggling onward as was he, over the death-impending ground, leaping from shell-hole to shell-hole, now into some water-filled crater, now out again, ever going onward, onward, onward unless stopped by death or a disabling wound? "Well, I can only hope for the best," mused Jimmy, as he paused a moment behind a hillock of dirt to get his breath. "This is fierce fighting! I only hope we smash through them!" Then again he plunged into the horrible din and slaughter, rallying such men as he saw needed to be led, not because they faltered, but because they were bewildered by the terrible din all about them. Meanwhile Roger, Bob and Franz found themselves close together as they advanced. They were rushing onward against a nest of German machine guns, taking advantage of such shelter as they could find between the bursts of fire. "We've got to get them out of the way!" panted Franz, as he wiped the blood from his face--blood from a cut in his head caused by a fragment of a shrapnel shell which, had it gone a half inch closer, would have ended his fighting days. "That's right!" agreed Bob. "They're holding up the advance at this point. Come on now. When they get through the next volley let's rush 'em. They must stop a moment to put in a fresh belt of cartridges." "Their machine guns fire faster than ours--at least they load faster," observed Roger, as the three paused, even as Jimmy had done, in a crater to get a moment's respite. "That flexible belt of cartridges goes in the firing chamber quicker than our brass clips do, I'm thinking." "But, even at that, our boys work our guns to better advantage," declared Franz. "They've got the knack of jamming in the cartridge clips, and though the Huns ought to fire faster, they don't, as a rule. Well, come on! Let's get the job over!" he said grimly, addressing those around him, who were waiting for the word to go on and wipe up the nest of Hun machine gunners.