But his nerves were at breaking-point.

It had been bad enough to crawl through the blind fog, with the ghostly steps of his comrades pattering softly at either side of him.  But it was a thousand times harder to lie helpless here, in the choking fog and on the soaked ground, while countless enemies were bearing down, unseen, upon him, on one side, and an impenetrable wire cut off his retreat on the other.

The Missourian had let his imagination begin to work; always a mistake in a private soldier.  He was visualizing the moment when this tramping German force should become aware of the presence of their puny foes and should slaughter them against the merciless wires.  It would not be a fair stand-up fight, this murder-rush of hundreds of men against twelve who were penned in and could not maneuver nor escape.  And the thought of it was doing queer things to the rookie’s overwrought nerves.

Having passed the word to creep closer to the wires, he began to execute the order in person, with no delay at all.  But he was a fraction of a second too late.  The Germans were moving in hike-formation with “points” thrown out in advance to either side—­a “point” being a private soldier who, for scouting and other purposes, marches at some distance from the main body.

The point, ahead of the platoon, had swerved too far to the left, in the blackness—­an error that would infallibly have brought him up against the wires, with considerable force, in another two steps.  But the Missourian was between him and the wires.  And the point’s heavy-shod foot came down, heel first, on the back of the rookie’s out-groping hand.  Such a crushing impact, on the hand-back, is one of the most agonizing minor injuries a man can sustain.  And this fact the Missourian discovered with great suddenness.

His too-taut nerves forced from his throat a yell that split the deathly stillness with an ear-piercing vehemence.  He sprang to his feet, forgetful of orders intent only on thrusting his bayonet through the Hun who had caused such acute torture to his hand.  Half way up, the rookie’s feet went out from under him in the slimy mud.  He caromed against the point, then fell headlong.

The German, doubtless thinking he had stumbled upon a single stray American scout, whirled his own rifle aloft, to dash out the brains of his luckless foe.  But before the upflung butt could descend,—­before the rookie could rise or dodge,—­the point added his quota to the rude breaking of the night’s silence.  He screamed in panic terror, dropped his brandished gun and reeled backward, clawing at his own throat.

For out of the eerie darkness, something had launched itself at him—­something silent and terrible, that had flown to the Missourian’s aid.  Down with a crash went the German, on his back.  He rolled against the Missourian, who promptly sought to grapple with him.

But even as he clawed for the German, the rookie’s nerves wrung from him a second yell—­this time less of rage than of horror.