return to your platoon. Leave the gun
here. It will be returned to you later and will be your property."

I went out with the machine gun captors and walked with them to the
road. There was the hum of motors high overhead and we knew that
American planes were above, going forward to observe and photograph
German positions before the effects of our bombardments could be
repaired. A line of flame and smoke pouring up from the enemy's front
line showed where their dugouts and shelters were still burning.

Daylight was pouring down on a ruined village street, up which marched
the returning raiders without thought of order. They were a happy,
gleeful party, with helmets tipped back from their young faces wet and
dirty, with rifles swung over their shoulders and the persuaders
dangling from their wrists. Most of them were up to their knees and
their wrap puttees were mostly in tatters from the contact with the
entanglements through which they had penetrated.

As they approached, I saw the cause for some of the jocularity. It was a
chubby, little, boyish figure, who sat perched up on the right shoulder
of a tall, husky Irish sergeant. The figure steadied itself by grasping
the sergeant's helmet with his left hand. The sergeant steadied him by
holding one right arm around his legs.

But there was no smile on the face of the thus transformed object. His
chubby countenance was one of easily understood concern. He was not a
day over sixteen years and this was quite some experience for him. He
was one of the German prisoners and these happy youngsters from across
the seas were bringing him in almost with as much importance as though
he had been a football hero. He was unhurt and it was unnecessary to
carry him, but this tribute was voluntarily added, not only as an
indication of extreme interest, but to reassure the juvenile captive of
the kindly intentions of his captors.

"Jiggers, here's the Colonel's dugout," one voice shouted. "Put him down
to walk, now."

The big sergeant acted on the suggestion and the little Fritz was
lowered to the ground. He immediately caught step with the big sergeant
and took up the latter's long stride with his short legs and feet
encased in clumsy German boots. His soiled uniform had been the German
field grey green. His helmet was gone but he wore well back on his head
the flat round cloth cap. With his fat cheeks he looked like a typical
baker's boy, and one almost expected to see him carryin