Sergeant Higgins' head appeared in the door. “Fall in,” he shouted. Then he added in his normal voice, “It's up and at 'em, fellers.” Chrisfield caught his puttee on a clump of briars at the edge of the clearing and stood kicking his leg back and forth to get it free. At last he broke away, the torn puttee dragging behind him. Out in the sunlight in the middle of the clearing he saw a man in olive-drab kneeling beside something on the ground. A German lay face down with a red hole in his back. The man was going through his pockets. He looked up into Chrisfield's face. “Souvenirs,” he said. “What outfit are you in, buddy?” “143rd,” said the man, getting to his feet slowly. “Where the hell are we?” “Damned if I know.” The clearing was empty, except for the two Americans and the German with the hole in his back. In the distance they heard a sound of artillery and nearer the “put, put, put” of isolated machine guns. The leaves of the trees about them, all shades of brown and crimson and yellow, danced in the sunlight. “Say, that damn money ain't no good, is it?” asked Chrisfield. “German money? Hell, no.... I got a watch that's a peach though.” The man held out a gold watch, looking suspiciously at Chrisfield all the while through half-closed eyes. “Ah saw a feller had a gold-handled sword,” said Chrisfield. “Where's that?” “Back there in the wood”; he waved his hand vaguely. “Ah've got to find ma outfit; comin' along?” Chrisfield started towards the other edge of the clearing. “Looks to me all right here,” said the other man, lying down on the grass in the sun. The leaves rustled underfoot as Chrisfield strode through the wood. He was frightened by being alone. He walked ahead as fast as he could, his puttee still dragging behind him. He came to a barbed-wire entanglement half embedded in fallen beech leaves. It had been partly cut in one place, but in crossing he tore his thigh on a barb. Taking off the torn puttee, he wrapped it round the outside of his trousers and kept on walking, feeling a little blood trickle down his leg. Later he came to a lane that cut straight through the wood where there were many ruts through the putty-coloured mud puddles; Down the lane in a patch of sunlight he saw a figure, towards which he hurried. It was a young man with red hair and a pink-and-white face. By a gold bar on the collar of his shirt Chrisfield saw that he was a lieutenant. He had no coat or hat and there was greenish slime all over the front of his clothes as if he had lain on his belly in a mud puddle. “Where you going?” “Dunno, sir.” “All right, come along.” The lieutenant started walking as fast as he could up the lane, swinging his arms wildly. “Seen any machine-gun nests?” “Not a one.” “Hum.” He followed the lieutenant, who walked so fast he had difficulty keeping up, splashing recklessly through the puddles.