And there, in the midst of the fighting but off to one side and out of the line of direct fire, stood Blake, Joe and Charlie, the two former turning the handles of the cameras and taking pictures even as they had stood in the midst of the volcanoes and earthquakes, or in the perils of the deep, making views.

The fighting became a mad riot of sound—­the sound of big guns and little—­the sound of bursting shells from either side—­the yells of the men—­the shouting of the officers and the shrill cries of the wounded.

It took all the nerve of the three lads to stand at their posts and see men killed and maimed before their eyes, but they were under orders, and did not waver.  For these scenes, terrible and horrible though they were, were to serve the good purpose of stimulating those at home, in safety across the sea, to a realization of the perils of war and the menace of the Huns.

The fighting was now at its fiercest.  The Germans had an accurate idea of the location of the American and French cannon by this time, and the artillery duel was taking place, while between that double line of fire the infantry were at body-grips.

Hand grenades were being tossed to and fro.  Men were emptying the magazines of their rifles or small arms fairly into the faces of each other.

When a soldier’s ammunition gave out, or his gun choked from the hot fire, he swung the rifle as a club or used the bayonet.  And then came dreadful scenes—­scenes that the moving picture boys did not like to think about afterward.  But war is a grim and terrible affair, and they were in the very thick of it.

Suddenly, as Blake and Joe were grinding away at their cameras, now and then shifting them to get a different view, something that made shrill whistling sounds, passed over their heads.

“What’s that?” asked Charlie, who stood ready with a reel of spare film for Blake’s machine.

“Bullets, I reckon,” answered Joe.  “They seem to be coming our way, too.”

“Maybe we’d better get out of here,” suggested Blake.  “We’ve got a lot of views, and——­”

“Don’t run yet, Buddies!” called a voice, and along came Private Drew.  “You’ll never hear the bullet that hits you.  And they’re firing high, the Fritzes are!  Don’t run yet.  How’re you making it?”

“All right so far, but it’s—­fierce!” cried Blake, as he stopped for a moment to let a smoke cloud blow away.

“Yes, it’s a hot little party, all right,” replied the soldier, with a grin.  “I haven’t had all my share yet.  Had to go back with an order.  Hi, here comes one!” and instinctively he dodged, as did the others, though a moment later it was borne to them that it was of little use to dodge on the battlefield.

Something flew screaming and whining over their heads, and fell a short distance away.

“It’s a shell!” cried Joe, as he saw it half bury itself in the earth.  “Look out!”