It is strange how people act in a crisis.  I mean, it is strange how quiet they are, and composed.  We stood there on the top of the trench, without speaking, although I knew what had happened to us was bitterer far than to be shot.  But there was not a word spoken.  I remember noticing Fred McKelvey, when the German who stood in front of him told him to take off his equipment.  Fred’s manner was halting, and reluctant, and he said, as he laid down his rifle and unbuckled his cartridge bag, “This is the thing my father told me never to let happen.”

Just then the German who stood by me said something to me, and pointed to my equipment, but I couldn’t unfasten a buckle with my useless arm, so I asked him if he couldn’t see I was wounded.  He seemed to understand what I meant, and unbuckled my straps and took everything off me, very gently, too, and whipped out my bandage and was putting it on my shoulder with considerable skill, I thought, and certainly with a gentle hand—­when the order came from their officer to move us on, for the shells were falling all around us.

Unfortunately for me, my guard did not come with us, nor did I ever see him again.  One of the others reached over and took my knife, cutting the string as unconcernedly as if I wanted him to have it, and I remember that this one had a saw-bayonet on his gun, as murderous and cruel-looking a weapon as any one could imagine, and he had a face to match it, too.  So in the first five minutes I saw the two kinds of Germans.

When we were out of the worst of the shell-fire, we stopped to rest, and, a great dizziness coming over me, I sat down with my head against a tree, and looked up at the trailing rags of clouds that drifted across the sky.  It was then about four o’clock of as pleasant an afternoon as I can ever remember.  But the calmness of the sky, with its deep blue distance, seemed to shrivel me up into nothing.  The world was so bright, and blue, and—­uncaring!

I may have fallen asleep for a few minutes, for I thought I heard McKelvey saying, “Dad always told me not to let this happen.”  Over and over again, I could hear this, but I don’t know whether McKelvey had repeated it.  My brain was like a phonograph that sticks at one word and says it over and over again until some one stops it.

I think it was Mudge, of Grand Forks, who came over to see how I was.  His voice sounded thin and far away, and I didn’t answer him.  Then I felt him taking off my overcoat and finishing the bandaging that the German boy had begun.

Little Joe, the Italian boy, often told me afterwards how I looked at that time.  “All same dead chicken not killed right and kep’ long time.”

Here those who were not so badly wounded were marched on, but there were ten of us so badly hit we had to go very slowly.  Percy Weller, one of the boys from Trail who enlisted when I did, was with us, and when we began the march I was behind him and noticed three holes in the back of his coat; the middle one was a horrible one made by shrapnel.  He staggered painfully, poor chap, and his left eye was gone!