It was quite light now, and the German artillery awoke. The first salvo of shells struck in the town. The second fell in the field to the right of the village. Overhead the wings of an airplane whirred. Under its wings were painted large black crosses. It fired a signal, rose again in the air, wheeled, and flew back. “Duck your heads,” shouted Sergeant Ryan, pulling a cigarette from his pocket. “They’ve got our range for sure.” They had. A moment later and a number of shells began a leisurely journey in the direction of the platoon. As they approached they lost their tardiness and fell shrieking, like some maddened demons, along the line of freshly dug dirt. “Anybody get hit?” Sergeant Ryan rose and looked around. “Stretcher bearer on the right!” Hicks yelled. In the hole next to his a curious thing had happened. A shell had grazed the top of the hole, buried itself in the dirt, and then backfired. When the stretcher-bearers arrived they found that Hayes, one of the men in the hole, had part of his back torn off. Quickly they laid him prone on the stretcher and started for the town as swiftly as the weight of their burden would permit. The other man, Hartman, was still crouched in the position he had assumed when Sergeant Ryan called the warning. Hicks jumped over beside him. “Hartman,” he called. Hartman failed to respond. He put his arm around him and lifted him up. Hartman began to laugh horribly. Then great tears coursed through the mud on his cheeks. “Hartman, what’s the matter?” Hartman laughed again in the same manner. He had completely lost control of his muscles and would have fallen face downward if Hicks had not held him up. “Tell Lieutenant Bedford that there’s something the matter with Hartman,” Hicks shouted. The word was passed along. “Lieutenant Bedford says for you to get somebody else and take him back to the first-aid station. He’s probably shell-shocked.” “Oh, Gillespie,” Hicks called. “Come and help me take Hartman back to the first-aid station.” “Oh, Hicks, I can’t. I’m sick at my stomach. I couldn’t help carry anything.” “Well, Pugh—come on, Pugh, you help me.” And Pugh got out of his hole, a few yards away, and ran over. Both men, one holding his legs and the other his shoulders, tried to dodge the stream of machine-gun bullets as they hurried the shell-shocked man to the dressing station. In the village there was greater safety—cellars to hide in, and there to escape the flying pieces of shells that fell into the town at short intervals. Hicks and Pugh rested for a moment, filled their canteens with water, and started back. Half-way to the platoon they found a Frenchman lying upon his back. “À moi, à moi,” he was groaning scarcely above a whisper. “What’s the mattah, buddy,” Pugh asked. “ ... par le gaz ... par le gaz.” “He says he’s been gassed, Pugh. Let’s take him back, too.” “Here, buddy, do you want a drink of watah?” Pugh asked. The Frenchman drank greedily.