ey did notice it, mentioned the
coincidence, I must confess, although I myself studiously refrained
from making any comment about it, the thought of the fateful number kept
recurring to my mind as we made our way to the spot where the visits of
the Grim Reaper were so frequent that death had ceased to be anything
but an every-day occurrence. It was only when some friend or chum paid
the supreme price that we gave the matter any particular attention, and
then it would be for but a short time. The necessity of every man's
looking out for his own life gave him but little time to think of much
else, unless, indeed, killing the Huns. Next to saving our own lives
that is the heartfelt desire of each man--get Fritz. And yet, although
the first thought of everyone is, naturally, for his own life, there is
no history in this war that can be written that can recount the number
of occasions when the seeming first thought of men was to do for their
pals, utterly regardless of their own safety. For sheer toying with
death and taking chances in situations that did not seem to offer the
slightest hope or chance of getting through, the Great War discloses
feats of valor with which nothing can compare that comes out of the mist
of "Days of old when knights were bold."

After goose-stepping for over an hour, and almost completely winded, we
flopped on the ground for a few minutes to catch our breath. We were
within about half-a-mile of the ridge over which we had to go in order
to get down into our dugouts, and Fritz' calling cards were commencing
to come in our direction; star shells were shooting up at short
intervals, the gleam of a flare every now and then plainly revealing
ourselves to each other. As we sat there the conversation seemed to lag
and a silence that struck me as somewhat ominous pervaded our little
group. I wondered if the rest were thinking of our number. One of my
best chums, Corporal Lawrence, was sitting next me, and I thought I
heard him sigh.

"What's the matter, Corporal, winded?" I asked.

"No, no, Sergeant, I was just thinking."

"Thinking? Thinking of what? The cookhouse? I'll bet we are all thinking
about that."

"No, Sergeant, it was not the cookhouse."

"Well, if it wasn't the cookhouse, is it that letter that is coming for
you tonight?" said I.

"No, you are wrong, Sergeant; it wasn't either of those things, much as
I would enjoy both the letter and the grub."

I felt that the gloom would become