“That’s the stuff. Now you’ve heard all the noise that they can make in this war, so you’re done with that experience. The rest of the stuff is only incidental-like,” said Jimmy. “Course somebody’s got to get killed or wounded. There wouldn’t be no war if that didn’t happen. But it won’t be us. It’s always the other guy. _Compree_?” “_Oui_,” answered O. D. “Get yourself together, boys, we’re pullin’ right out. O. P.’s report that the Germans are hauling it fast. Hardly any resistance. _Beaucoup_ prisoners comin’ in. Thousands, they say. The old doughboys are goin’ like hell,” shouted Neil, running up to O. D. and Jimmy. “That’s the old pep. Come on, O. D., we’re off to another fight,” and Jimmy started on the run for the tent. The first few sharp points of dawn were piercing the haze of early morning as Jimmy, O. D., and the rest of the outfit started across the decaying stretch of land southeast of wrecked Mouilly. For four long years the ground that the Yankees trampled underfoot had been the No Man’s Land between the German and French lines. There was no real road, just a winding succession of shell-holes and gaping craters, bordered on one side by a water-filled trench that had been the late target of American guns. On the other side of the ruined road stretched a bumpy, chaotic plain, out of which the snags of shell-smashed trees lifted jagged points and shattered limbs. Rusty barbed wire was strung in baffling tangles from every charred stump and smoking post. Demolished guns, rifles, bayonets, and sundry articles of equipment were littered over the grim terrain. Gray desolation, destruction, and barrenness abounded. “This is what they call the _Grande Tranchée_, O. D. Never seen anything like this, even in the movin’ pictures, did you?” questioned Jimmy. O. D.’s eyes were fastened on a gruesome heap of headless men whose bodies were torn, twisted, and partly covered by debris. He shuddered before answering. “No, Jimmy. Look down there,” pointing to the dead. “_Oui_, Boches,” responded Jimmy, casually. “Sure tore up this place some. Our old Betsy was landin’ ’em down here. Ain’t nothin’ over three feet high ’round here.” A long column of German prisoners filed by under guard of American doughboys. “What outfit, buddy?” asked Jimmy of a guard. “First Division,” answered the man. “Seen much of the Twenty-sixth doughboys?” questioned Jimmy. “_Oui_, they beat us into Vigunelles. Those guys sure bagged some Boches,” and the guard picked up a faster step with his prisoners. The attack was still in force and shells were plowing up the broken ground in every direction when the battery arrived opposite a German cemetery. Orders were received at that point for the regiment to go into position behind the hills of St. Rémy. The tired and worn columns entered the woods by a road that had been used by the Germans only the day before.