“Is this place hot enough to suit you, Jimmy?” asked O.D. as he and Jimmy huddled in a water-filled shell-hole while a drove of barrack bags went skimming over their heads.

“I’ll say, oui,” replied Jimmy. “Wish for a thing and you’ll sure get it. Remember my wishing that they’d send us to a real front. There ain’t no camouflage to this joint. Listen to that damn machine-gun music, will you?”

From the depths of the Haumont Bois issued the frenzied snapping and barking of machine-guns that contrasted strangely with the unending thunder-roll of the heavy guns.

Before Jimmy and his pal was the pivot upon which the German defenses in the Argonne depended. Upon that cemented pivot was hinged the hopes of the German High Command. If the pivot was forced the entire line of defenses that swung back and forth like a red, intangible thing in the depth of the Argonne woods would be swept away by the intrepid American troops. The Prussian militarists had rushed some of their finest divisions in front of Verdun to stay the advance of American soldiers who had been ordered to unhinge the pivotal defense at all costs.

It mattered not that companies and battalions were cut to pieces and mowed down by the hidden machine-gun fire of the Germans who held the high ground and were securely intrenched. The order was to force the pivot. Jimmy’s division had been ordered to unhinge it.

For three weeks he and his comrades had advanced yard by yard, each yard calling for the sacrifice of many brave men. After the third day in the lines beyond Verdun Jimmy had looked for his friend Neil, to learn that an ugly shell wound had sent him to the hospital. An entire new gun crew was manning the first piece, as every man had been killed or wounded when a German two-hundred-and-twenty made a direct hit on the howitzer. The Boches had been using gas with deadly effect. Ten men that he knew very well had been caught by the poisonous fumes and were evacuated to a hospital. Death had come pretty close to both Jimmy and O.D., but by some law of destiny they had come through unscratched.

“We might try to get back now, O.D.” Jimmy raised himself cautiously and scanned their surroundings.

A shell whistled, almost in his ear. He ducked down again.

“That drink of water may cost us a lot before we get back. Gee! but I was thirsty. No water in three days. It’ll be three more before we can pull this stunt again. Think them damn Heinies have got us under observation. Stuff’s comin’ mighty close. They’re breakin’ right over by that hill.” He pointed to a hill not a hundred yards away. It was perforated by shell hits and blue smoke was rising from a dozen places where shells had lately exploded.

“Dick said we were goin’ to fire again, toot sweet, so we’ll have to make a dive for it. You follow me, O.D.”

Jimmy squirmed out of the slimy hole and crawled away in the direction of his position. O.D. followed behind at about ten yards’ interval. The condition of O.D.’s clothing made him look like a tramp. His wrap puttees were mud-soaked and ripped in many places. His breeches were as dirty as Jimmy’s had ever been. He had the front written all over him. The guerre had stamped its trade-mark upon O.D.

After fifteen minutes of snakelike progress Jimmy and O.D. reached the position. There wasn’t a soul to be seen. Everybody and everything lived below the surface in those terrible days and nights beyond Verdun.

“Let’s get down to the old hole and lie quiet till it’s time to fire,” and Jimmy crawled down to what he and O.D. called “the hole.”

It was their home. The boys had stretched their canvas shelter-halves over the top of a crater made by a giant shell. Underneath this protection was their stock and store of worldly possessions, which consisted of an odd sock, a suit of dirty underclothes, and a little box that held a few personal trinkets. Raincoats, and what little extra underclothes they once owned, had been lost in the advance from Verdun.

Jimmy got to “the hole” first.

“Great Lord, O.D.! Here’s some mail. Ration cart just brought it up from the Échelon. Guess it’s all for you. No here’s three for me,” he cried, excitedly.

Mail it was. The first that they had seen in nearly a month. Jimmy had three letters from Mary and in one was two pictures.

“To hell with this guerre!” shouted Jimmy, jumping up.

“What’s the matter, Jimmy? Get good news from some of the boys?” asked O.D.

“Boys hell!” answered Jimmy. “They’re from Mary—” then he stopped short and felt kind of foolish.

“Oh!” exclaimed O.D. “I knew Mary would write if I told her to. I’ve got some from her and mother.”

The two boys read their letters on in silence. The more that Jimmy read of Mary’s letters the more he was willing to believe the rumors that had been coming in by radio that the Germans might sign an armistice. In fact, you could have told Jimmy almost anything at that moment and he would have believed it. He studied Mary’s new pictures with the one that he had taken from O.D. O.D. caught him in the act.

“Mary gave me one of those seashore pictures before I left, but I lost it some place lately,” said O.D., looking at the two new pictures.

“Yes, I guess you did, O.D. I swiped it from you. Don’t mind, do you, old man? I wanted a picture of Mary.”

“Did you take that one, Jimmy?”

“Oui.”

“Anything you do, old boy, is O. K. with me. You know that, Jimmy, don’t you?” asked the brother of Mary.

“Bet I do, O.D. Funny how guys get to be pals up here, ain’t it! Back in the States you and me would have passed each other up, most likely. Out here it’s mighty darn different. Makes a fellow get down under the skin of things. I feel like I’ve known you all my life, O.D.”

“So do I, Jimmy. I never knew any fellow as good as I’ve come to know you.”

“Well, when men get close to dyin’ with each other, when they’ve starved side by side and damn near froze to death under the same pieces of cheesecloth, it ain’t any wonder that they find out who and what each other is. Do you know, it’s gettin’ colder every night? We’ve got to rustle up some more coverin’ soon or we’ll pass out one of these nights. It’s that cold mud underneath us that puts ice in the bones. Look here, O.D., don’t you wake up in the night no more and listen to me talk in my sleep ’bout cold and put your coat over me. Keep it on your side. I’m more used to this stuff than you,” commanded Jimmy.

“I wasn’t cold, Jimmy, honest. Think I’ll turn over and cushay a while. We ’ain’t slept in forty-eight hours now. There won’t be anything to monjay tonight; stuff got in too late for supper. Goin’ to give us some coffee and stuff ’round nine o’clock.”

“Well, we’ll both crawl in and knock out some sleep,” said Jimmy, and they got under their thin dirt-spattered blankets and fell into sound slumber with no effort.

Three hours later Jimmy and O.D. were throttled out of their sleep by the banging of incoming shells and the quaking of earth that shivered and shook as the shells ripped great smoking holes in its sides.

Between the bangs and the crashes they caught the piping of the whistle that called them to the pits. Twenty seconds later Sergeant Dick Dennis, chief of Jimmy’s gun section, sang out to the executive officer, “Third section in order, sir.”

“Battery—On basic deflection—Right, One—Three—Zero—F. A. shell—I. A. L. fuse—Charge double zero—Site zero—One hundred rounds—At my command—Elevation five, six three,” shouted the executive officer.

There was grim silence in the gun-pits. A shell came tearing over and hit fifty yards from the first piece. Fragments and stones pattered down through the trees.

“F—I—R—E!” was the command.

Four flashes illuminated the night shadows and four guns loosened their brass tongues of thunder. The ground rocked. The air quivered. The pieces bayed and roared on like mad, fire-spitting animals. Joining their voices in the savage symphony of death that filled the woods they crowded that particular part of the world with an infernal clamor.

Down in the cozy mire of their gun-pit Jimmy McGee and his gang worked hands over fists to keep Betsy roaring. Almost ten months on the line had made them indifferent to enemy fire, especially if they were fighting back, so they labored on while the Hun missiles came tearing overhead, spilling their contents of death dangerously near.

O.D., working directly behind Jimmy, marveled at his pal’s coolness in adjusting sights and elevations, unconscious of the fact that he was almost as cool in his own work as Jimmy.

An explosion more terrific than any previous one shook the entire vicinity of the battery position. After the crash of bursting steel and iron had ended agonized cries were torn from the throats of suffering men. Piteous pleadings for aid filled the flame-shot night. Above the groans that were racked by pain a voice called out, “First piece out of order, sir.” A fit of coughing followed the report.

Spare men and the two Sanitary Corps men rushed to the pit of the first section where the shell had landed and demolished the gun while tearing the crew into lifeless or quivering wrecks of humans. Everything that could be done for the men was accomplished heedless of the incoming shells. Every moment brought an increasing number of shells into the immediate vicinity of the battery position. Trees were smashed and chewed to bits. Earth was thrown high into the air. Tree branches mingled with the shell splinters that rained down.

“Second section out of order, sir,” shouted the chief of that section. His gunner had reported that the bore would not stand another shot. The piece had been recommended for the mobile repair shop two weeks before.

“Second section, abandon your piece. Take cover,” ordered the executive officer, crowding data for the third and fourth piece on top of that command.

Jimmy McGee’s crew was still putting them over when fragments from a shell that had ruined the fourth section knocked his Nos. 4 and 6 down. Short-handed he kept the hot one-hundred-and-fifty-five howitzer going. O.D. was still hanging on the rammer and pushing the big shells in the breech.

Captain Henderson rushed into the pit.

“You men take shelter. Your gun’s the only one left in action.”

“Please don’t make us quit, Pop. Pardon, sir. Shoot the dope along. We’ll stick, won’t we, O.D.?”

“Bet we will, Jimmy!” shot back O.D., grimly, as he helped his No. 5 get the shell on the tray.

The answer had barely escaped his lips when a shell made a direct hit on a tree behind the pit. O.D. fell to the ground. Jimmy McGee sank down with a stifled groan. The two boys left in the pit toppled like young trees from the blow of a mighty ax.

The captain, who was untouched, raised Jimmy and got his knee under his head.

“Get Bacon or March, the first-aid men, quick!” commanded the captain to a man who was stumbling over the debris in the pit.

“Both of ’em are down, sir; got hit. The boys are havin’ a hell of a time with the wounded.” The man stooped to pick up Dick Dennis, who had been killed outright.

“My God!” groaned Henderson, tearing away Jimmy’s blouse to get at his wounded arm.

“Cap—cap,” called Jim, feebly. Henderson bent over him. “I’ve only got a splinter—only stunned. Get to O.D. first.” Jimmy tried to get loose and go to O.D., who lay quiet in a pool of blood.

“Johnson—Johnson, try to bind O.D.’s wound,” ordered the C. O., turning to a man who sat all huddled up amid the horror and torture, puffing wildly at a cigarette like some grotesque being.

“Can’t touch him,” answered Johnson, blowing a mouthful of smoke after the jerky words. “God have mercy on me,” he kept repeating. The fellow’s nerve was gone. Henderson had seen a few like him before. He let him alone.

Jimmy crawled to O.D.

“O.D.—O.D.! Talk to me! God! Look at his back; it’s all busted up. O.D., I’m Jimmy. Answer me, boy,” implored his pal.

Henderson came with a mess-cup full of water and some bandages.

The water brought O.D. to a state of semi-consciousness. Jimmy saw his eyes flutter open about half-way and he started talking again.

“We’re fixin’ you, boy—hang on. The Boches never was made to get you and me. We got to go back to Mary, O.D.”

“Jimmy—Jimmy—” The name was called so faintly that Jimmy could hardly hear it. He bent his ear close to O.D.’s blue lips.

“I’m listenin’, pal. What is it?”

“You go back—back—back—to Mary for—” The words trembled and stopped short.

“For you, O.D.?” supplied Jimmy.

“Oui,” gasped the dying boy.

“But you’ll go, too, O.D. Hell, you can’t die now.”

“Yes—die—later—see you—somewhere— Good-by, Jim—” Death cut the words short.

A great lump rose in Jimmy McGee’s throat. Something warm and salty burned his eyes. He pressed his good hand against the torn back of his pal and tried to staunch the incessant red flow with his fingers. Captain Henderson removed him tenderly from the body of his pal a few moments later and led Jimmy, dry-eyed and white-faced, over to the dressing-station.

“Just the way of it, cap. The best guys gets it. Poor O.D.!” muttered Jimmy as they bound up his splintered arm.

They buried O.D. in a shell-hole and wrapped his body in the blankets and shelter-halves that he and Jimmy had slept between. Jimmy looked at the sad mound of earth and then let them take him away to the ambulance that was to bring him and two others down to the Échelon infirmary. His wound was not deemed serious enough for hospital treatment.