"Don't cry, Michaud, go out by the connecting trench to the dressing station. It's not far." The hail of "coal scuttles" having subsided, the General mounted to his observation post. "Hey! Michel! Gaston! hey there, the artillery!" he yelled. "Get in at them quick. Go to it, I say. Don't you see they're going to attack! What's artillery for, anyway?" "We can't fire a shot. They're pounding on our munitions dump." "What difference does that make?" Under heavy fire the artillery achieved the impossible, which actually resulted in bloodshed. But their determination was soon rewarded, for the patent "Seventy Fives," represented by huge slabs of sod, soon rained into the enemy trenches, sowing panic and disorder. Profiting by the confusion, our General grabbed up a basket and began distributing munitions. "Attention! Listen to me! Don't any one fire until I give the word. Let them approach quite close and then each one of you choose your man. Dentu, if you're too short, stand on a stone or something!" The artillery wreaking havoc in his midst, the enemy decided to brusque matters and attack. He left his trenches shouting, "_Vive la France! En avant! Aux armes, mes citoyens! A bas le Boche!_" "Attention! Are you ready? Fire!" commanded our General. Bing! bang! a veritable tornado of over-ripe tomatoes deluged the astonished oncomers, who hesitated an instant and then fell back. The standard bearer having received one juicy missile full in the face, dropped his emblem and stared wild-eyed about him. From the head and hair of the enemy General, whose cardboard helmet had been crushed to a pulp, streamed a disgusting reddish mess. The other unfortunate wounded were weeping. "_En avant a la bayonette_! _Vive la France_! We've got them, they're ours," shrieked the delighted commander, who owed his rank to the fact that his parents kept a fruit stand. It was victory for certain, and a proudly won triumph. The melee was hot and ferocious, many a patch or darn being put in store for certain patient, all-enduring mothers. The dressing station was full to overflowing. Here the feminine element reigned supreme, their heads eclipsed beneath a stolen dish cloth, a borrowed towel, or a grimy handkerchief. And here too, little Michaud, his pate enveloped in so many yards of bandage that he seemed to be all turban, sat on an impromptu cot, smiling benignly while devouring a three sou apple tart, due to the generosity of the Ladies' Red Cross Emergency Committee, which had taken up a collection in order to alleviate the sufferings of their dear hero. To be perfectly frank, almost all the supply of dressings had been employed on Michaud's person at the very outbreak of hostilities, so, therefore, when the stock ran short and more were needed, they were merely unrolled from about his head. Leaving him to his fate, we advanced a bit in order to communicate with one of the glorious vanquished.