Jimmy got orders to fire. The darkness of night was lost in blinding flashes of yellow flames that came from the thundering guns. Shells whined and whistled on their way toward the German trenches and positions. O. D. rammed the shells home, wondering if the world was coming to an end. The roar of the pieces, the rattle of machine-guns, the earth that quivered beneath him and the skies that seemed to be blazing with varicolored fires assailed his ears, his eyes, and his soul with a violence that he had never dreamed of. He looked to Jimmy for confidence. Jimmy was working his sights and traversing the piece as if he were listening to a jazz victrola record. O. D. bit his lips. He knew that one of his real trials was at hand. The din of battle became a unison of wild, barbaric music. Out where the doughboys were going over, under the barrages, rockets crawled against the livid heavens. O. D. thought of dragons and unearthly monsters as he watched these things. The scream of a shell, more sinister than the rest, caused O. D.’s hair to stand up straight. “That one’s comin’ in,” bawled out Jimmy. Another shell whistled in the same fashion. B—A—N—G! The sound of an explosion new to the ears of O. D. throttled the vicinity of his piece. A human cry made itself heard above the angry roaring of the guns. “Somebody got it—poor guy!” shouted Jimmy. O. D. nodded and kept on placing the shells on the tray and ramming them in the smoking breech. For four hours the battle storm raged incessantly. During those hours Jimmy’s gun crew worked away with straining muscles. There was no mental or spiritual strain attached to their labor. They were hardened to the unnatural sounds and sights of modern fighting. But O. D., new to the things of big action, face to face with the relentless fury of war for the first time, had to contend with both the physical and spiritual conditions which presented themselves. He was naturally strong; but four hours of work, under stress of fighting, made his arms and back feel as if they were breaking. No man, however iron of will and nerves, can go through his first battle without some demoralization of his mental forces. O. D. was only an ordinary boy. Naturally he suffered his share of spiritual anguish in the trying moments of competition for the control of his soul powers before the onslaught of terrors that threatened to smash his nerve and courage. When orders to cease firing came O. D. was tired and a bit wan. But he had found himself. That alone counted with him. A few moments later, when Jimmy asked him how he liked it, O. D. found himself answering: “It kind of got me at first—especially when that wounded man cried out. But when I didn’t stop to think, and kept on working, I didn’t mind it so much.”