From somewhere among the still figures Lieutenant Bedford arose and walked to the form. “Hello, doc. You better put on your mask. The gas is damn heavy here.” He dove into his mask again. “Damn it, I came back here for volunteers, not to be told what to do. We got a lot of wounded men up there.” “All right; I’ll get you some men.” He summoned six men and ordered them to take litters up to the ravine. * * * * * “Good God, Hicks, don’t go so fast. Wait a minute.” “All right; let your end down, then.” Hicks and Pietrzak had been assigned to the job of litter bearers. It was now the third time that they had carried a wounded man from the ravine to the first-aid station, almost two miles away. To do so they had to escape the shells that fell so numerously in the ravine, and, with their masks on, to carry their burden through the gulley filled with gas. On arriving at the first-aid station the first time they found their burden to be dead. His arm had been severed from his body. The second man was unconscious when he was lowered to the ground in front of the first-aid station. Now they were on the way from the ravine once more, carrying a man whose middle had been pierced by a fragment of shell casing. As they lowered the stretcher to rest, the man groaned and pleaded with them to go on. Hicks tried to reason: “We’ll never git there if we don’t take a little rest. We’ll be there soon, buddy. Do you want a drink?” He offered his canteen. “No, just take me away from here,” the man groaned piteously. They rested until they could endure the man’s groaning no longer; then they started off. They had no more than started when a shell struck directly in rear of them. They plodded on with their burden, stumbling over the boulders in the gulley. A little farther on and another shell exploded. On they went until the mustard-like odor of gas filled their nostrils. Then they stopped to put on their masks. Letting his end of the stretcher sink slowly to the ground, Hicks asked the wounded man: “Can you wear a mask, buddy?” “Yes, oh, yes, give it to me. I’ll die without it.” Fear in the man’s voice was stronger than pain. Hicks bent over the man’s chest for the familiar respirator. It was gone. “Where is your mask?” he asked. “I don’t know.” Very gently Hicks raised his head and placed his mask over the face of the wounded man. They started on again. Rapidly, successively, three shells struck close by. The rear end of the stretcher dropped to the ground. “Pete!” cried Hicks. Pietrzak did not answer, and Hicks, putting down his end of the stretcher, walked to the other end and felt along the ground. Pietrzak was lying on his side. His neck was wet with blood. A large piece of shell casing had struck him below the ear, and he was now quite dead. His mask was in shreds.