' marching time. The gunfire, however, was not
heavy, being merely the spasmodic firing incident to such nights as
communiques spoke of as "calm."

After another hour of marching, McGee noticed that they were on the edge
of a shattered village. Not one single wall stood intact. As he reached
the center of this stark skeleton of a once happy village he saw that
here the enemy had concentrated their fire. Here was a wall, standing
gaunt and grim against the night sky; and over there, facing a little
square, a shattered church still retained the strength to hold aloft its
cross-capped steeple. The Cross ... in a broken, blood-red world!

McGee slowed his pace, gradually, and dropped from the line of march. He
had considered himself fully recovered, but the last hour had sapped his
small reserve of strength. He seated himself on a pile of stone in the
dark corner of a protecting wall and wiped his brow. What with the long,
hot march, and the steam arising from the soaked earth, he was wringing
wet. The experience had served to increase his respect for these
plodding doughboys who considered this as only one more night like
dozens of others they had experienced.

Sitting there on the damp, cold stone, McGee considered his position.
This town, battered by shell fire, would be forward of any position
taken up by a pursuit group. To push on would be but to retrace his
steps. It would also be folly, for he had no gas mask. Shells had
reached this town before, and they might do so again. He was willing to
take a chance with flying shrapnel, but deadly gas was something else
again.

He decided, therefore, to make his way to the edge of the town, find
shelter if possible, and await the coming of dawn. Daylight, he
reasoned, would be certain to bring him in sight of planes from some
group, operating on this front, and if he could locate a 'drome his
problem would be near solution.

He made his way back along the lines of infantrymen, artillery,
ambulances and wagon trains until he reached an old stone stable that
had miraculously escaped destruction.

Having no light, he groped around in the black interior, seeking a place
where he might spread his coat for a bed. He stumbled against a ladder,
which mounted upward into the cavernous mow of a loft. He climbed the
creaking rungs, found footing on the dry floor, and stopped to sniff at
the odor of the few wisps of dry, musty hay scattered thinly over the
rough boards. He took a