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Over the torn and tumbled reaches of No Man's Land, earth up heaved as in an earthquake, here grown with a thin, lovely, obstinate turf of grass that clung and grew green, there scarred with great pits where a gleam of dull water at the bottoms sullenly reflected a think light in the sky, though barbed wire, over hillock and stone and dead branch—came a gallant little band, with the smiles breaking through the brown mud on their faces. They trudged and sang some song about a dear old pal at home, and beside them, disarmed, weary, green-gray, crowned with sadly comic caps willing and perhaps glad they were coming, marched the Hun prisoners. At their head, against the evening sky, went Bill, for once not hearing the every word of his men—for in his arms he carried Golden-Eyes—his girl—his pal—his little American with a "heart good as bread," her draggled finer blowing against his knees, the sweet feel of her again on his breast—above his heart. He clinched her tight, his blouse about her—tied by the arms under her chine, and knew the strange, wonderful savoir of Love and Victory mingled.
Mounting the slope came two more—a strange couple—a dropping, lowering officer in gray, with his few belongings slung behind him, and "heeling him up" as he had sheep in other days, "somewhere in America," came Uncle Same in a broad grin, his white collar and tail taking the breeze like a bundle of feathers—a grin for his two "beloveds" and a glance of fire for his prisoner.
The raiders were coming back to the American lines.
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