By God, he wouldn’t have any liquid fire poured on him. “Johnston!” he called. But Johnston, his leader, was not there. Hicks’s last clip had been emptied of shells. There were no more in his _musette_ bag. It wasn’t possible! Johnston must be some place near, ready to give him more clips. But no! He threw his rifle away in disgust. A few yards farther he saw the back of an olive-drab uniform, and by one of the hands that was connected to the uniform was clutched a rifle. Hicks snatched the rifle, unbuckled the cartridge-belt from the uniform, and hurried blindly on. A deep ravine was in front of him. He half jumped, half stumbled across it, and found himself once more in a wheat-field. There was no one in sight. He scrambled back over the ravine and through the woods again, frightened but defiant. Wherever he looked, as he went back through the woods, men were lying. Some of them lay quite still. Others moaned and cried alternately. But Hicks paid no heed. He was still hurrying on, his head up and his nostrils wide, when some one called: “Here, Hicks, get busy and round up some of these Squareheads.” It was Ryan. Hicks felt as if he had been struck in the stomach with a brick. He laughed nervously. “Sure.” Nine Germans stood together with their hands raised high above their heads. Their knees were shaking badly and they looked first to one side and then to the other. Docile sheep, he led them back to the village where he turned them over to a reserve regiment. On the way back to join his platoon he met a man who looked familiar. “Say, fellow, don’t you belong to A Company, of the Fifth?” The man turned. “I did,” he said. “I don’t believe there is any more A Company.” “What do you mean?” “Why, we attacked this morning through an open space in the woods,” the man told him. “And they’re all dead? Fellah, I’ve got a cousin in that outfit. Show me where they went over.” They walked back to the clearing together. Men were lying around in all manner of postures, and much more thickly than the men in the woods. “What was your cousin’s name, buddy?” “Williams, Paul Williams,” Hicks jerked out. “He was a tall, dark-haired fellow, about nineteen?” “Nope. Might have seen him, but I don’t remember his name.” Hicks covered the entire field, stopping closely to peer into the face of each of the men who was not a German soldier. As he was turning away from a man who was lying upon his back, his arms and legs stretched wide, and over whom he had stood longer than usual because the face reminded him somewhat of his cousin, the man’s eyelids partly opened, and in a voice in which there was little strength, called: “Soldier! Oh, soldier! Don’t let that damned Squarehead get me. Don’t leave me alone with him. He’ll kill me.”