But a low moaning just beyond the trench held his attention.  It did not seem to him that it was more than a dozen feet away, and he felt a great sympathy and pity.  He did not doubt that some German boy hurt terribly lay almost within reach of his arm.  He moved once in order that he might not hear the dreadful sound, but an irresistible attraction drew him back.  Then he heard it more plainly, but the thick pouring snow covered all things.

“Carstairs,” he said, “I’m going to get a wounded man out there.  I just can’t stand it any longer.”

“Don’t be foolish.  They may send a volley at any time through the snow, and one of their bullets is likely to get you.”

“I’ll chance it.”

“It’s against orders.”

“I’m going anyhow.  Maybe I’ve suddenly grown squeamish, but I mean to save that wounded German from freezing to death.”

“Stop, Scott!  You mustn’t risk your life this way.  I’ll report you to Captain Colton!”

But it was too late.  John had climbed up the side of the trench, and, standing in the deep snow, was feeling about for the one who groaned.  Guided by the sound his hands soon touched a human body.

The fallen man was lying on his side and he was already half buried in the snow.  John ran his hand along his arm and shoulder, and felt cold thick blood, clotting his sleeve.  But he was yet alive, because he groaned again, and John believed from the quality of his voice that he was very young.  The hurt was in the shoulder and the loss of blood had been great.

He knelt beside the wounded lad and spoke to him in English and French, and in German that he had learned recently.  A faint reply came; but it was too low for him to understand.  Then he knelt in the snow beside him and was just barely able to see that he had a blond youth younger than himself.  Shots came from the German line as he knelt there, but they were merely random bullets whistling through the snowy gloom.  He was made of tenacious material, and the danger from the flying bullets merely confirmed him in his purpose.  Moreover, he could not bear to return, and listen to those groans so near him.  He grasped the young German under the shoulders and dragged him to the edge of the trench.  Then he called softly: 

“Carstairs, Wharton!  I’ve got him!  Help me down!”

Carstairs and Wharton appeared and Carstairs said: 

“Well, you light-headed Yankee, you have come back!”

“Yes, and I’ve brought with me what I went after.  Help me down with him.  Easy there now!  He’s hit hard in the shoulder!”

The two lifted him into the trench and John slid after him, just as a half-dozen random shots whistled over his head.  There they drew the rescued youth into one of the alcoves dug in the wall and Carstairs flashed his electric torch on his face, revealing features boyish, delicate, and white as death now.  His gray uniform was of richer material than usual and an iron cross was pinned upon his breast.