“No, but we won’t mount them—just keep them here for replacement, and leave a loading detail. Better use that clump of trees down there in the dark. What are they, Fisher?” “Aja-wee-mig.” “O. Fisher, when in France better talk American.” “Beech, sir.” “Well, do you think you could find those beeches in the dark?” The promised question had been asked, and they grinned at each other. “Best of scouts, I want you to write a letter home to your folks before tomorrow morning. I don’t know where they live, but you do. And I shall want you to bring back a carrying detail for more ammunition as soon as the forward platoons get set. Now let’s look for field-pieces.” The glasses revealed no activity in the captured trenches, and no sign of field-pieces. Even O. Fisher’s reinforced vision could see nothing wrong. The world was apparently engaged in no other occupation but farming. There was booming in the distance, but that was as common as thunder. The sun’s disk appeared. Marvin got up and stretched his legs. “We must be getting on to pick positions. While I think of it, Mr. Gregg, give Taylor all the men you can spare so that he can have some hot slum here in time to go up with Fisher and the ammunition detail. Now from here it is easy to see what our general disposition will be.” The others followed his gaze. “At last reports, that ridge at the left—” Marvin pointed with his left hand and turned to Gregg. But just then Fisher seemed to strike him a sharp blow on the outstretched hand. Marvin swayed to the left Fisher was lying on the ground with his hat off. Marvin stooped to drag him into shelter, but as he did so his own left arm swung forward, and he noted that it resembled a garden hose spouting red. He sank to his knees. Gregg seized the arm and fumbled for his first-aid package. Marvin tried to help him, but his head was getting light; he felt like a drifting leaf. Gregg got the bandage on and two handkerchiefs around the arm above the elbow, and twisted them tight with a stick. Marvin lay flat on his back, but turned his head to see if he could make out how badly his Indian was hurt. He could see that red was trickling from O. Fisher’s mouth, and that it bubbled when he spoke. He could not hear what was said, for within his own ears was the sound of many waters. But he perceived that Gregg was taking out his pencil and notebook. Gregg held the book directly over O. Fisher’s chest until the guide wrote something. The pencil grew larger until it seemed a tree. O. Fisher’s fingers were slow brown animals making that tree move back and forth. They were trying to ride it down to get at the leaves.... Leaves, more likely straw, like that in the dugout. From one ton of wheat-straw could be produced alcohol equal to forty gallons of gasoline. Of course he did. Why should anybody ask him if he felt better? He opened his eyes and saw Gregg looking down out of a cloud. He turned his head. This was no hillside, but the dressing station.