“What’s the matter, Corporal, winded?” I asked.

“No, no, Sergeant, I was just thinking.”

“Thinking?  Thinking of what?  The cookhouse?  I’ll bet we are all thinking about that.”

“No, Sergeant, it was not the cookhouse.”

“Well, if it wasn’t the cookhouse, is it that letter that is coming for you tonight?” said I.

“No, you are wrong, Sergeant; it wasn’t either of those things, much as I would enjoy both the letter and the grub.”

I felt that the gloom would become infectious if it were not immediately dissipated, and I blurted out, “Well, for God’s sake, don’t keep us all in suspense; how in hell are we going to go on until we know what you are thinking about?”

His answer made me sorry I spoke.

“I was just thinking,” said he, “that my number is up.”

This is an expression of the men on the Western Front when they have a premonition that their time on earth is short.  A sudden fear smote me, but I banished the thought and started jollying him profanely.

“Now, Corporal, you know what damn nonsense it is to talk that way!  Do you want to wish it on yourself?”

“No, Grant, I should say not, but I can’t help thinking it, all the same.”

“Yes, Lawrence,” said McLean.  “For God’s sake don’t wish any trouble on us more than we have got.”

Billy McLean was my dearest pal; we had enlisted together and had formed one of those attachments that men sometimes make and is only severed by death, and we shared each other’s most intimate thoughts.  The words had scarcely died on McLean’s lips when—­Woo-o-f!  Bang!  Bang! and shells commenced to land all about us.

The spot we had selected to rest on was under observation; Fritz had evidently become aware of the fact that it was our usual course in coming to the trench and had registered the place for a target, just as he registered battery roads, ammunition depots, railway heads, sleeping quarters,—­everywhere and anywhere that exhibited a trace of life immediately became an observation target and was subject to a hail of shell and shrapnel any hour of the day or night.

We were all slightly stunned by the dose, but recovered our senses in a minute or so.

“All right, fellows, let’s be going,” I said, and up we jumped, all except Lawrence.

“Come on, Corporal, finish your dream in the dugout.”  He made no reply.  With a sickening at my heart I went over and put my hand on his face; it was wet with his life’s blood; he was shot through the head.  As hurriedly and as gently as possible we laid him in a hollow place and started for the ridge; we had no time for even a prayer, as we were being treated to a fair-sized fusillade, and ducking and dodging, this way and that, we made our way to the top as quickly as every ounce of energy left in our legs would permit, and rolled, tumbled, scrambled and fell—­any old way—­down the front side of the ridge into the ditch at the