“Fall in!” the little sergeant shouted, standing before the platoon. “Right dress!” he commanded sharply and ran to the right of the platoon, from where he told one man to draw in his waist and another to move his feet, and so on, until he was satisfied that the line was reasonably straight. “Steady, front!” And in a very military manner he placed himself in the proper place before the company and began to call the roll. “All present or accounted for, sir,” he reported to the captain, a note of pride and of a great deed nobly done ringing in his voice. The sergeants fell back in rear of the platoons and the commander ordered “squads right.” The hobnailed boots of the men on the cobblestones echoed hollowly down the street. Stupid-looking old Frenchmen, a few thick-waisted women, and a scattering of ragged children dully watched the company march down the street. For the most part they were living in the advance area because they had no other place to go and because they feared to leave the only homes that they had ever known. The platoon marched out of the town along a gravel road and into a green, evenly plotted field, where they were deployed and where, to their surprise, a number of sacks, filled with straw, had been hung from a row of scaffolding. The platoon faced the sacks, were manœuvred so that each man would be standing in front of one of the dummies and were ordered to fix bayonets. Sergeant Harriman, the nostrils of his stubby nose flaring wide with zeal, began his instructions. “All right, you men. Now you want to forget that these are sacks of straw. They are not at all. They are dirty Huns—Huns that raped the Belgians, Huns that would have come over to the good old U. S. A. and raped our women if we hadn’t got into the war. Now, men, I want to see some action, I want to see some hate when you stick these dirty Huns. I want to see how hard you can _grunt_.” “All ready now. Straight thrust. One, two, three—now——” As a body the platoon lunged their bayonets into the cloth-covered straw. “Great God! Is that all the pep you’ve got? Why, you men are stale. What the hell did you come over here to fight for? Did you ever hear that you were supposed to be saving the world for democracy? Now, try it again, and put some punch in it this time. Let’s hear your _grunt_.” The action was repeated. “Rotten!” yelled the sergeant. “What the hell are you going to do when you get up to the front? Do you think this is an afternoon tea? You act like a bunch of ribbon-counter clerks, and that’s what I believe most of you are. Now let’s try the butt stroke.” “Butt stroke. One—two—three. Oh, hell. Where are you aiming, Gillespie? Remember, you’ve missed him with the bayonet and you’re trying to soak him in the crotch—in the _crotch_, mind you, with the butt of your rifle.”