his deep breathing.
He was not sure whether or not I was a corpse, but he was going to take no
chances. He lunged with the steel. I managed to jam the butt of my rifle
against his head. It disconcerted him, but there was not enough force
behind the blow, struck from my awkward position, to stun him. He rolled
upon me. I felt for his throat. He was a big, greasy boche and my fingers
could scarcely encircle his neck, but I squeezed and squeezed, for my life
depended upon my eight fingers and my two thumbs. If I did not throttle
him, he would kill me.

He was getting weaker. I felt his muscles relax. I could see his eyes. I
do not think I shall ever forget them. They bulged from their sockets and
it seemed that they would pop from his head and strike me in the face. It
sickened me, but it was his life or mine. He was clawing frantically but
weakly. Now he was still. It was brutal, but war is brutal.

After emptying his pockets I crawled to the edge of the dugout listening
post. Inside were three men, two lying in the bottom of the hole, the
third sitting with his back against the wall of the excavation. The boche
I had just left probably had disobeyed orders in crawling out without
awakening one of them. The error cost him his life and saved mine.

For a second as I peered over the edge of the hole I had thoughts of a
daring deed, but it was better to get back to our lines with the contents
of the first man's pockets, which no doubt afforded information for our
staff, and so I returned--battered and torn and exhausted.

After this, in recognition of my work as a scout, I was offered the rank
of a non-commissioned officer, but I did not wish it. They were picking
off the non-coms too fast to suit me, and there was danger enough in the
work I was doing.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

After spending a few more days in this last, very warm position, we moved
to billets a little way off behind our left flank, and we certainly needed
the rest. There was no indication that these billets had been used before
by our troops. Jock Hunter and I were assigned to a barn, and you may be
sure I was delighted at the prospect of literally "hitting the hay" as the
Americans say.

As there were chickens running around, even over every part of the
thatched house, Jock and I went in search of eggs, for oh! how we longed
for a change of diet! For weeks it had been bully beef and biscuits, and
then biscuits and bully beef. In our search, we cli