“By God,” Pugh said, “that’s the first Frog I’ve ever seen that would drink water.” They carried him to the dressing station, and after they had explained to the captain of the Medical Corps where they had found him, in what a desperate condition he was, and that there was nothing else to do with him, the Frenchman was finally accepted. “We can’t fill this place up with all kinds of people,” the medical officer objected. “We’ll have a hard-enough time taking care of our own men in a few minutes.” Pugh, disgusted, emitted a stream of tobacco juice, shrugged his shoulder, turned on his heel. “Come on, Hicksy, let’s get back where there’s white men.” Their hearts racing madly, they reached their holes without being struck by the machine-gun bullets that sang deadly songs all around. After the first terrific salvo, the German artillery, for some unknown reason, had stopped. The skirmishing on the right, which the platoon had witnessed in the early morning, seemed to have been carried within the woods. A few waves of pigmy-like figures had walked slowly toward the wooded hill, and by the time their lines arrived, although considerably thinned, the gray defenders of the hill were to be seen no more. Now that they were no longer targets, Hicks walked over to where Ryan was squatted in his hole. “This is a hell of a note, isn’t it, Ryan? To have to lie like this all day and not get to fire a shot?” “You’ll get a chance to fire plenty of shots, damn it. Some poor fool is making our regiment attack without a barrage. Did you see the outfit over on the right that went up that hill? That was the third battalion, and I’ll bet there’s not a third of the men left. Well, we’ll go over most any time.” “But, Ryan, that’s murder, not to have a barrage. What can these fool officers be thinking of?” “Glory,” Ryan answered. Late in the afternoon the company commander passed the word along the line that the men would be permitted to eat one of their boxes of hard bread, but nothing else. “Who the hell wants to eat any of that damned stuff?” “God, my hardtack laid in the trenches for six weeks, and even them damned rats wouldn’t eat it.” The platoon had recovered its spirits, its “morale,” as the white-collared fighters for democracy often spoke of it. * * * * * As night was coming on, a noise was heard in the grass between the men and the ruined village. It coughed tentatively, then decisively. “Who’s back there?” “A runner from battalion headquarters,” the voice answered cautiously. “Don’t shoot.” “Oh, come ahead.” “What the hell are you afraid of?” “We’re not as fierce as we look.” “Where’s your company commander?” the voice asked. “He went over to ask the Squareheads to stop shootin’. There’s a man here that’s got a headache,” Pugh informed the voice. “No, where is he, fellows?” By this time the voice had become Fosbrook. Hicks recognized him. “Hello, Fosbrook.”