At last, out of sight of every one, in the thickest of the woods, he sat upon a small hill and regarded his misshapen, hobnailed shoe. It held a curious fascination for him. Yes, the little bump was where the small toe curled. But none of his other toes reached to the end of the shoe, he reflected. What nice leather. A shame to spoil such leather as that. Yes, a shame, and besides.... From his pack he drew a small, round can of Argentina beef, which he balanced between his instep and the toe of his shoe. No harm in spoiling that! He wiggled his toes around in the shoe and felt squeamish. His hand felt for his pistol at his side. Yes, there it was and nicely oiled. He drew the pistol from the holster and aimed it at the small blue can. Forty-five-caliber pistols kicked up in the air when they were fired, he remembered. He aimed it a bit lower—and _bang_. For a moment he felt nothing. The grin was still on his face. Then his look changed to one of consternation. Better go back and report to the platoon. He rose to his feet, took a few steps, and fell to the ground. By heavens, this was no joke, shooting yourself in the foot. This was serious business. Hospital and everything. Then he remembered that he had done it himself. It was probably the first time that he had really known it. Court martial and disgrace. And he had only meant to get back home. He began to whimper. * * * * * Lieutenant Bedford, his skin the color of sun-bleached ash, walked among the men, a beaten Napoleon. A patch of black, ragged beard, his heavy, bristling mustache, his dull brown eyes that seemed to pain, made him appear more dead than alive as he loped along. The men remained lying on the ground, recognizing his approach by a speculative glance. Their faces were interestingly similar. A dull gray pallor overspread them all. Their eyes were leaden, expressionless, save for a kind of apathetic fear of the inevitable. Each lower jaw hung at the same depressed angle. Lieutenant Bedford sat down as if it were his final act. “Any of you men feel like doing any work?” There was no answer. Lieutenant Bedford spoke again. “I got to have a work detail. These fellows must be buried. Are there any volunteers?” After a short silence some one asked weakly: “Where is that damned grave-digger battalion? What are they for?” “Yes, where are they? I didn’t come in this man’s army to dig graves.” Lieutenant Bedford tried to appear indignant. “How the hell do you expect the grave-diggers to be here when the artillery haven’t even got up here yet? Nope, we’ve got to bury them, that’s all. Besides, they’re our dead. They’ll be stinkin’ like hell by to-night if we don’t bury ’em,” he encouraged. “Harriman,” he went on in a sort of drone, “pick out a burial detail and have the men work in reliefs.” There was no “yes, sir” forthcoming. The men looked at each other and then at Lieutenant Bedford. “Harriman ain’t here.”