It seemed to Henry and me that we had seen all there was to be seen of the war.  Hill 304 would be there after the treaty of peace was signed and the Major and Norton then could come to see it.  But they were bound for Berlin; so we slowly edged by that poor mule; he seemed to be the longest mule we had ever—­well, he seemed to be a sort of trans-continental mule, but we finally got past him and came to the edge of the woods.  It took about three ducks to twenty yards, and passing the mule we had four downs and no gain.  That gave the Germans the ball.  So when we got to the edge of the wood and were standing looking into the French trenches and at Hill 304 off at our right, after the Major had handed Norton the field glasses and Norton had considerately handed them to Henry, who passed them to me for such fleeting glance as politeness might require, the Germans came back with that ball.  It came right out of Berlin, too.  One could hear it howl as it crossed the Thiergarten and went over Wilhelm Strasse and scream as it whizzed over Bavaria.  There never was another such shell.  And we ducked—­all of us.  Henry said he never saw me make such a duck—­it was the duck of a life-time.  And then that shell landed.  It was a wholesale hardware store that hit—­no retail affair.  The sound was awful.  And then something inside of me or outside tore with an awful rip.  We had been reading Dr. Crile’s book on the anesthesia of fear, and suddenly it occurred to me that the shell had hit me and torn a hole in me and that fear had deadened the pain.  Slowly and in terror my right hand groped back to the place of the wound, expecting every moment to encounter blood and ragged flesh.  We were still crouched over, waiting for the fountain of junk to cease spraying.  Nearer and nearer came the shrinking fingers to the wound.  They felt no blood, but something more terrible!  There, dangling by its apex, hung that pie-shaped slice of shirt from those cotton khaki trousers—­ripped clear out!  And Paris fifty miles away!

Slowly we unfolded ourselves from the duck.  And as we came up—­sping! went a sharp metallic click on Norton’s helmet.  A bit of shrapnel had hit it.  Under a hat he would have been killed!  So we went back to the first aid post—­me holding those khaki trousers up by sheer force of will, and both hands!

So long as Norton and the Major had led the way from the dugout, it simultaneously flashed over Henry and me that we should lead the way back, and not leave all the exertion to our companions.  So we set the pace back.

At the first aid post we stopped for breath.  The French welcomed us back, and we rested a moment under their hospitality.  Our own French guns were carolling away; the arrives were coming in.  It seemed to Henry and me that we were not so badly frightened as we knew we were.  For we kept a running fire going of airy persiflage—­which was like the noise of boys whistling through a graveyard.  Henry said:  “That German gunner is playing