fallen to the ground, struggling one to master the other.
One Highlander, who had been struck by a bullet just before reaching the
enemy parapet, grasped his rifle, and crawled as best he could the
intervening distance, waiting his chance to get his man. At last it came.
His bayonet found its mark, before the bulky Hun could ward off the
unexpected stroke from the wounded lad. In a moment they were both lying
prone on the earth. The Highlander, I am sure, died content--content that
he had got his quota at least.

It was the wildest confusion, but its impressions were absolutely
photographic. I can see it all, again, this moment.

The Prussians were finally obliged to retire to their reserve trenches. We
took their firing trench, but had to vacate it because it was subject to
an enfilading fire from the enemy. As we retreated in company squads, we
kept up a steady fire.

While making for our trenches, I shouted to one of the fellows on my left
to keep down as we were drawing the enemy's fire. The sentence was hardly
completed, when something hot struck me on the left jaw. It seemed as if I
had been hit with a sledge hammer. I spun round, stumbled, and fell to
the ground. I realized that it was a bullet and tried to swear at the
boches, but all I could do was to spit and cough, for the blood was almost
choking me. The bullet, entering my cheek and shattering some of my teeth
in passing, made its exit by way of my mouth. My warning, however, had
saved the life of the lad I had shouted to. He flopped to the ground just
in time to avoid a sweep of machine-gun fire, and managed to crawl to our
trench, which was a very short distance off.

I was sent to the regimental dressing station. There were scores there
more seriously wounded than I, and they were, of course, attended to
first. By the time it was my turn, my face was so completely smeared with
congealed blood that the orderly couldn't locate the wound. He wiped my
face with a bunch of grass and applied a dressing. I was relieved to hear
that it was a clean wound.

In the dressing station, suffering as I was, I noticed two men forcibly
controlling a wounded comrade. After a moment I recognized him as the
little recruit who had prayed that the Germans might not pass the wire
and come to bayonet fighting with us. His features were so changed that he
seemed aged a dozen years and--believe it or not, as you will--his hair,
which had been sleek and black, was entirely whi