ibs, naturally, was at Lambert's folly. There had been a letter a day
or two ago which he had scarcely had time to read because of the demands
of an extended movement and the confusion of receiving replacements and
re-equipping the men he had. He read it over now. "Understanding,"
"Brotherhood."

"You are helping to bring it about, because you are helping to win this
war."

In a fit of irritation he tore the letter up. What the devil was he
fighting the war for?

The question wouldn't let him asleep. Lambert, Wandel, and Squibs
between them had made him for the first time in his life thoroughly,
uncomfortably, abominably afraid--physically afraid--afraid of being
killed. For all at once there was more than Sylvia to make him want to
live. He didn't see how he could die without knowing what the deuce he
was fighting this man's war for, anyway.

XI

He hadn't learned any more about it when Lambert and he were caught on
the same afternoon a week later.

In the interminable, haggard thicket the attack had abruptly halted.
Word reached George that Lambert's company was falling back. To him that
was beyond belief if Lambert was still with his men. He hurried forward
before regimental headquarters had had a chance to open its distant
mouth. There were machine-gun nests ahead, foolish stragglers told him.
Of course. Those were what he had ordered Lambert to take. The company
was disorganized. Little groups slunk back, dragging their rifles as if
they were too heavy. Others squatted in the underbrush, waiting
apparently for some valuable advice.

George found the senior lieutenant, crouched behind a fallen log,
getting the company in hand again through runners.

"Where's Captain Planter?"

The lieutenant nodded carelessly ahead.

"Hundred yards or so out there. He ran the show too much himself," he
complained. "Bunch of Jerries jumped out of the thicket and threw potato
mashers, then crawled back to the guns. When the captain went down the
men near him broke. Sort of thing spreads like a pestilence."

"Dead?" George asked.

"Don't know. Potato mashers!"

"Why haven't you found out?" George asked, irritably.

The complaining note increased in the other's voice.

"He's at the foot of that tree. Hear those guns? They're just zipping a
few while they wait for someone to get to him."

"Pull your company together," George said with an absurd feeling that he
spoke to Mrs. Planter. "I'll go along and see that we g