Then came another shell, striking and exploding outside of the rocks again and had Wilson possessed nerves as sensitive as those of young Judson there would have been another case of shell-shock, for both men had been previously jarred and shaken. It is generally the continued and persistent menace of these horrible spreaders of death and destruction that drive men into a chronic fear that utterly overmasters their strength of will. As it was, splinters of stone and shell flew through the lookout opening and struck the watcher in the head, painfully, though not seriously wounding him. Back he came, crawling and bleeding, as poor Jennings would have said, “like a stuck pig.” Don bound Wilson’s head; then the leader said:
“Men, there is really no alternative for us. We cannot wait longer here. Something has happened to Gill, or he would stop that gun again. We must get out of here by the hilltop and then Wilson will stick up a white rag. Come on!”
The surviving five--Herbert, Don, the corporal, Kelly and Farnham--shook hands with Wilson; then creeping farther into the shadows, gained the dense growth above. At the brow of the hill Herbert again addressed his followers:
“We must make a choice here, boys. Are we to lie low, hide, hoping for the drive to reach us; are we to try to get through the German first line positions, as suggested before, or are we to stay on the job and take it out on those gunners? If you will all join me, let us go for the chaps who have played the Old Scratch with us for the last two hours.”
“I’m with you, Lieutenant,” Farnham said.
“Then, Lieutenant Richards, we are under your leadership,” Herbert said. “You know how you and Gill went about it. Go to it, old sport!”
And go they did, sneaking through the thickets like boys playing Indian or hunters stalking game, Don leading the way, and they came out at the exact spot that he and Gill had reached, but there was no sign of the mountaineer.
The German field piece was in the same place as before and an artillery squad of seven or eight new men had been working the gun. Having noted the white flag, a bit of poor Tomlinson’s shirt, on a stick they had stopped shooting while Hun officers investigated the inside of the recent stronghold of the Yank squad. But the Hun artillery men were not idle. They had received orders of a more exacting character than the shooting up of a small squad of Americans; now they were to shoot at the American Army and to join in the effort to stem its advance. So each man was engrossed with his duties: the cleaning of the piece, the oiling of mechanisms, the storing of shells for immediate and rapid use when the occasion demanded.