f the trench and crawled along on my stomach to the
left, following the trench to avoid the bullets, which I knew were
flying over me.

Soon I saw, looking down into the trench, some of the boys I knew,
and I dropped in beside them. Then everything went from me. A great
darkness arose up from somewhere and swallowed me! Then I had a
delightful sensation of peace and warmth and general comfort.
Darkness, the blackest, inkiest darkness, rolled over me in waves
and hid me so well no Jack Johnson or Big Bertha could ever find me.
I hadn't a care or a thought in the world. I was light as a feather,
and these great strong waves of darkness carried me farther and
farther away.

But they didn't carry me quite far enough, for a cry shot through me
like a knife, and I was wide awake, looking up from the bottom of a
muddy trench. And the cry that wakened me was sounding up and down
the trench, "The Germans are coming!"

Sergeant Reid, who did not seem to realize how desperate the
situation was, was asking Major Bing-Hall what he was going to do.
But before any more could be said, the Germans were swarming over the
trench. The officer in charge of them gave us a chance to surrender,
which we did, and then it seemed like a hundred voices--harsh,
horrible voices--called to us to come out of the trench. "Raus" is
the word they use, pronounced "rouse."

This was the first German word I had heard, and I hated it. It is the
word they use to a dog when they want him to go out, or to cattle
they are chasing out of a field. It is used to mean either "Come
out!"--or "Get out!" I hated it that day, and I hated it still more
afterward.

There were about twenty of us altogether, and we climbed out of the
trench without speaking. There was nothing to be said. It was all up
with us.

CHAPTER II

THROUGH BELGIUM

It is strange how people act in a crisis. I mean, it is strange how
quiet they are, and composed. We stood there on the top of the
trench, without speaking, although I knew what had happened to us was
bitterer far than to be shot. But there was not a word spoken. I
remember noticing Fred McKelvey, when the German who stood in front
of him told him to take off his equipment. Fred's manner was halting,
and reluctant, and he said, as he laid down his rifle and unbuckled
his cartridge bag, "This is the thing my father told me never to let
happen."

Just then the German who stood by me said something to me, and
pointed to