"They will not; we will not. We are Don Cossacks." "But you must." The captain springs up and gives the battalion bugler the order, "Cease firing." The signal is heard with the greatest difficulty amid the thousand-voiced tumult. But slowly it gets the upper hand. Suddenly the fire ceases along the entire line. Only in the depths of the wood a few single shots still ring out. Again the captain bends over the injured man. "We will tell them, you and I. You will give the command to your people. You must give it. And I shall honor your heroes; for they are heroes." Four men improvise a litter. The Russian is placed on it. He groans at every step of the bearers and his eyes wander from one of them to the other. Our captain goes, head erect, into the darkness of the wood. Behind him go the two bearers with the officer. We wait and wait, clinging breathlessly to the ground. The sun creeps through the branches and spreads its soft, grateful warmth over us. And of a sudden we are strangely softened, overcome by the light of the day and by the gleam of humanity which, as from another world, for once falls into our hard, hard life. The minutes pass, slow and noiseless, coming and going without fighting, without bloodshed, without horror. As the sun mounts higher and higher, the Cossacks gradually gather in our neighborhood. They stream toward us from all directions. The first of them are distrustful and sullen, the last of them storming and hungry. We are horrified at the nameless suffering in their lean, misery-smitten faces. Then we turn our bread sacks over--and we shudder at the bestial ravenousness with which men can eat. Our captain and the wounded Russian come with the last group. Both smile a smile such as I have never seen before. At midday we get in touch with the neighboring division. We bring in 540 Don Cossacks, prisoners. A BOMBING EXPEDITION WITH THE BRITISH AIR SERVICE _Daring Adventures of the Royal Fliers_ _Told by First Lieutenant J. Errol D. Boyd, of the British Air Service_