IEUTENANT MILLS, who ranks-you or
Browning?"

I snapped to attention, saluting. Captain Andrews, regimental Operations Officer, stood before me. "I do, sir." "All right. Come with me."

We found Browning sitting on a stool, smoking -a picture of laziness. But he saw the captain, and straightened up like a jack-in-the-box. Our senior, striding on ahead, motioned for him to fall in with me.

"What's up, Joe?" he whispered.

"Search me! Somebody in trouble in the company, maybe."

"Hope it is n't us. But it would n't be his job anyhow. He'd pass it up to the Old Man."

Thereafter we swung along behind the captain in perplexed silence. Our Operations Officer was a rather saturnine, somewhat reserved old scout. We knew him best as the originator of all manner of heart-breaking training-camp stunts-stunts which had never endeared him to us particularly. Ordinarily he was the whole thing as to dignity, and when he saw fit thus to hunt up and foregather with a couple of "shave-tails"-camp lingo for second lieutenants-something must be "up."

He led us far down the road, crossed a field, then piloted us up a little slope to a point just below the crest. Motioning for us to do as he did, he dropped to the ground, and with no particular loss of dignity, so far as I could see, crawled to the summit. Browning and I were at his heels-literally-until we finally drew up beside him to peer through a thin screen of bushes into the valley beyond.

It was difficult to understand for the moment the need for our precautions. Certainly the valley looked peaceful enough just then. Here and there it was dotted with shell-holes, but no

living thing, man or beast, was in sight. On the opposite slope, however, something like a thousand yards from where we lay, stretched a long, zigzag line the enemy's.

"Take your glasses and focus on those trenches," ordered the captain. "See that line of brush? All right. Now-just at the left center! See it? Look closely."

We looked. Sure enough, there was the little tell-tale slit in the bushes-a machine-gun nest! The captain turned and faced us.

"That nest has been causing a lot of trouble. It must be taken," he said. "You two boys are to do the job-you and your platoons. The show comes off to-morrow morning. Mills, you are in charge. Take your men this afternoon and rehearse just what you will do. And let me tell you two this: just about every other officer in the regiment, the colonel included, will be roosting up here, watching you work. You 're in luck!"

That was all-no "ifs" or "ands"-no asking if we felt equal to the job-just a cold-blooded assumption that we were aching for it. I saw Browning's eyes kindle and a flush rise in his dark cheek. I think at that moment we both loved the grim old boy who was giving us our chance. But he had already slid back a few paces, and was getting on his feet. We did the like, and without a word he led the way down the hill again. It was hard work to keep quiet as we followed. I think both of us wanted to turn handsprings. Chosen from all the "loots" in the regiment to do a job like this! And that kindly "you boys" from the grim old codger! Take the machine-gun nest? Wow! Would n't we do just that thing! When the captain had left us I slapped Browning on the back.

"What about it?" I asked, in a sort of suppressed yell.

"Oh, boy!" was all he could say.

But a moment later, edging out of reach, he added, "If only we were to have a real commander somebody that knew something!"

Then he bolted for his quarters, zigzagging as he ran, and the piece of paving rock I sent after him went wide. I had thought we were unobserved, but of course a couple of the men-old "vets" at that-had to step out from behind a tent just then. They saluted stiffly, then walked away, grinning at the horse-play of the "kid looies."

That afternoon we were busy people. We

intervening. It was to be the support. Soon I split my own immediate command into line of half platoons, as the less dangerous formation in the event of artillery fire. Then, the ground becoming rough as we approached the slope, I split again into line-of-combat groups. On the other side of the slope lay success or failure. Which would it be? Success, of course-no sense in thinking of anything else!

But we were nearing the crest. I gave the signal "As skirmishers," and the men spread out into two waves.

I signaled a halt and looked about

established an imitation machine-gun nest in a corner of the field, and again and again captured it in every manner and method. The men were as interested as ourselves-full of "pep" and "jazz." Finally we settled on our plan, and sent the boys to quarters. When I went to bed that night it was to do the whole thing over and over again in my dreams, sometimes leading my platoon to victory; just as often being defeated, and all shot up individually, though somehow the Boches never seemed to finish me.

It was great the next morning to see the way the fellows lined up. Inspection-unusually strict at that-was a mere ceremony. Absolutely everything in the way of equipment was in shape.

A few cautioning words, and we were off.

We marched down the road in column of squads, Browning's platoon in the rear, with a wide gap

me.

Every man was in his exact and proper place tense and silent-and ready! Again we advanced-and reached the crest!

"Br-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r! Br-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r! Br-r-rr-r!" The machine-gun!

I signaled "Down!" Instantly. every man "hit the dust," taking cover as best he might. Another signal-and the front wave began firing. They had the range, and right off the bat the automatic rifles on the flanks got in their work. With every rattling explosion I fancied I could see puffs of dust shoot into the air in front of the hostile nest. The effect was immediate. The enemy fire grew high and wild. I blew my whistle. Instantly the four automatic riflemen of my right flank team arose as one, rushed forward for thirty yards and dropped, safe for the moment, into a shell-hole. Then, team by team, all the remaining men of the front wave rushed to cover

in the advanced position. The second wave followed suit and so we kept it up. Team by team hustled forward in short rushes from cover

to cover. It was very simple after all-also exciting. And the moment for the final struggle was drawing thrillingly near.

But we had been paying for our progress! As we advanced, the enemy fire had grown hotter again. Here and there men dropped and lay still. There was a gap in our center-not one of our teams was whole. Two of my four runners were down. Were we good for that last rush yet to be made and the struggle at the end? I thought so and the men thought so. I could see it in their snapping eyes, their quick, impatient glances. They might as well have said, in so many words: "What are we stopping for? Why can't we finish it?" Why could n't we, indeed? For a moment my head spun with the temptation to go on-to show the colonel and the others watching up there on the crest that I needed no aid; that I could do without Browning and his support. Then I kicked myself-figuratively, but good and hard-and woke up! I was n't there to get these men of mine killed needlessly. A flanking fire would mean everything for us now-and Browning and his men, back there, chafing, waiting for their chance, were the lads to give it.

Away sped the runner, dodging from shell-hole to shell-hole, bearing my message. The men with me, at my order, dug in where they lay with a few moments' fierce work, and continued to pour their fire into the enemy nest. There was need of the additional protection. The ground we hugged was being swept as by a broom of lead. Every

moment some one of my little force ceased firing and lay still. Why did n't Browning come? Our fire grew weaker, while the enemy's seemed to increase in volume and accuracy. Here and there a man glanced at me questioningly—only for the fraction of an instant-still doggedly working the lever of his piece. Where was Browning?

And the answer came. From the left suddenly broke a new rattle of automatics. A roar of explosions sounded all about the enemy nest as "V. B." after "V. B." landed. Almost instantly the hostile fire slackened; in a moment it ceased entirely. Browning had arrived! I gathered my remaining men. "Let's go!" We went-with a yell! Two minutes later saw us swarming-bayonets fixed and jabbingall over and about the hostile trench-to be greeted by the defenders with mingled laughter and shouts of alarm, the latter not entirely makebelieve.

"Here, here, Mills! What are you up to? Call off your dogs, you young lunatic! They'll be sticking us like so many pigs in a minute!"

It was the commander of the defenders who spoke Captain Andrews himself, the Operations Officer. And it tickles me yet to remember that the grim old "vet" looked almost scared in the midst of his laughter. But it tickled me more when he climbed out of the trench to shake hands with me, also with Browning, and to tell us that we had put up a "bully good little sham fight." And he laughed out-genially, almost boyishly— when my "fallen" men, all grinning, marched up and came to a standstill at the order of a big sergeant: "St. Peter's Battalion!-Halt!"