Spare men and the two Sanitary Corps men rushed to the pit of the first section where the shell had landed and demolished the gun while tearing the crew into lifeless or quivering wrecks of humans. Everything that could be done for the men was accomplished heedless of the incoming shells. Every moment brought an increasing number of shells into the immediate vicinity of the battery position. Trees were smashed and chewed to bits. Earth was thrown high into the air. Tree branches mingled with the shell splinters that rained down. “Second section out of order, sir,” shouted the chief of that section. His gunner had reported that the bore would not stand another shot. The piece had been recommended for the mobile repair shop two weeks before. “Second section, abandon your piece. Take cover,” ordered the executive officer, crowding data for the third and fourth piece on top of that command. Jimmy McGee’s crew was still putting them over when fragments from a shell that had ruined the fourth section knocked his Nos. 4 and 6 down. Short-handed he kept the hot one-hundred-and-fifty-five howitzer going. O. D. was still hanging on the rammer and pushing the big shells in the breech. Captain Henderson rushed into the pit. “You men take shelter. Your gun’s the only one left in action.” “Please don’t make us quit, Pop. Pardon, sir. Shoot the dope along. We’ll stick, won’t we, O. D.?” “Bet we will, Jimmy!” shot back O. D., grimly, as he helped his No. 5 get the shell on the tray. The answer had barely escaped his lips when a shell made a direct hit on a tree behind the pit. O. D. fell to the ground. Jimmy McGee sank down with a stifled groan. The two boys left in the pit toppled like young trees from the blow of a mighty ax. The captain, who was untouched, raised Jimmy and got his knee under his head. “Get Bacon or March, the first-aid men, quick!” commanded the captain to a man who was stumbling over the debris in the pit. “Both of ’em are down, sir; got hit. The boys are havin’ a hell of a time with the wounded.” The man stooped to pick up Dick Dennis, who had been killed outright. “My God!” groaned Henderson, tearing away Jimmy’s blouse to get at his wounded arm. “Cap—cap,” called Jim, feebly. Henderson bent over him. “I’ve only got a splinter—only stunned. Get to O. D. first.” Jimmy tried to get loose and go to O. D., who lay quiet in a pool of blood. “Johnson—Johnson, try to bind O. D.’s wound,” ordered the C. O., turning to a man who sat all huddled up amid the horror and torture, puffing wildly at a cigarette like some grotesque being. “Can’t touch him,” answered Johnson, blowing a mouthful of smoke after the jerky words. “God have mercy on me,” he kept repeating. The fellow’s nerve was gone. Henderson had seen a few like him before. He let him alone. Jimmy crawled to O. D. “O. D.—O. D.! Talk to me! God! Look at his back; it’s all busted up. O. D., I’m Jimmy. Answer me, boy,” implored his pal.