The late afternoon sun shone upon a group of mounds of fresh-dug dirt. Each mound was marked by two rough sticks, made to form a cross, at the juncture of which a small aluminum disk bearing a number was fastened. A few yards away men were eating cold beef, cold boiled potatoes, and drinking lukewarm coffee from their muddy canteen cups. * * * * * The sky was clear and the air was like a bell. It could have been fancied that any noise must be a tinkling one. The tree tops were tall Gothic spires that reached to the heavens. The man in the moon was distinct in the round, pale ball that threw silvery sheets into the forest. The platoon believed that it had embarked upon a night that at last was to be silent, harmless. They tried to stretch their muscles, which had been taut for days; their thoughts sought out other and more pleasant scenes of remembrance. The air was crisp and their bodies felt comfortable under their blankets. Their heads, pillowed on their gas-masks, were, for once, inert. Fear had flown. The first shell that whined its course from the German lines to the place where they were asleep passed unnoticed. It struck the ground with a “P-tt.” The next one did likewise, but some one awakened. He touched the man lying near to him. “What was that?” he asked fearfully, wanting to be assured. Another shell, sounding like a full bottle that is shaken, dropped several yards away. “Oh, hell,” said the aroused man. “The Squareheads are out of ammunition. They’re shootin’ beer-bottles over.” He fell asleep, unconcerned. The first man sniffed. “Beer-bottles! I guess not. GAS!” he screamed, in a panic. Grunting, swearing, frightened, the men got their masks over their faces in less time than they had been trained to. Now they sat around tense, their minds blank, the saliva running down their chins from the mouthpiece of the mask. Ahead of them, in the ravine, where they had been a few days ago, shells broke, reporting noisily. More shells were hurled over, to fall and explode, battering at the ravine. Meanwhile the barely discernible P-tt continued around them. The bombardment seemed to be everlasting. Under so heavy a bombardment the ravine must be levelled out. Bang, crash, bang, up in front at the ravine. P-tt, P-tt, P-tt, back where the platoon was lying. Out of the noise a voice was heard calling: “Hey, Third Platoon. We want volunteers for stretcher bearers!” Through the dimness made by the glass eyes of his mask, Hicks saw a man come stumbling through the trees. “Where are you, Third Platoon?” the form cried. Hicks drew off his mask, yelled “HERE!” and replaced it, then forcing the contaminated air out of the mask. “We want volunteers.” The form had a querulous voice. Hicks took off his mask again. “Put on your mask!” he shouted. “Damn the mask!” cursed the form. “We’ve got nothing but wounded men up at the front line and we want some help.”