Or picture this to yourself: Shaken with fever and with burning eyes, a boy comes to me, whimpering--he can endure no more--and I ride into him and drive him back to the front. Can you picture that? But it must be! Everything here is beyond one's strength. My God! We ourselves must do impossible things. But can one demand that of the others? We know that the struggle is for the German idea in the world--that it is to defend German understanding, German perception against the onslaught of Asiatic barbarism and Romanic indifference. We know what is on the cards if we do not do our utmost. But the men? How often since we came to this God-forsaken region did we tell ourselves that it was impossible to go forward at night. It is really impossible. And then came an order--an order which could not be carried out during the day, so it went at night. It went because it must. Because "the order" is the great unavoidable--something that must be carried out--Fate, the all-determining. We know what "the order" means now! It is that which gives our people the ascendancy over the whole world. WALTHER HARICH. II--HORRORS OF "NO MAN'S LAND" Near Maricourt, December 17, 1914. Soon after 11 we were awakened by the retiring sentries. As tired as dogs though we were, we crawled out into the open. It was still raining wet strings--a cold, ugly December night; not a star to be seen. Every once in a while the sound of a shot came to us from the other side of the stream. "You," remarked Hias suddenly, "listen! Hear anything?" "What do you mean?" "Now." It was a long, wailing cry for help. I could hear it distinctly. "There is a poor devil out there, wounded," said Hias. Great heavens--in this weather! And he must have been lying there without help since early yesterday. He couldn't be in the wood anywhere, for we had gone through that thoroughly. Perhaps he had been caught by a shrapnel splinter during the retreat across the field. Well, what was it to us? Let his comrades get him. He must be just a few meters from the French trenches, anyhow. Released at 1, we went back to our tents to get some sleep, cursing the French who left their comrade to perish so miserably. At 3 the next afternoon, when I went on duty again, the poor devil was still calling for help, keeping it up all day. We could not help; we did not see him. And to expose ourselves to the French was a proceeding not to be lightly recommended. It was a horrible feeling to be condemned thus to inaction while a wounded soldier called for help. When the wind changed one could hear the poor devil whimper and weep and then suddenly rouse himself and send out a call for help, "Oh, la, la!" Why didn't the French take him away? There was no danger. We could not shoot, for we saw nothing. And we had no intention of doing that. I was glad when my hour was up.