"It's all over, sergeant," Chester said, "and the Germans are licked," Hal explained. "Look at them out there—" and Chester waved his arm in the direction of his erstwhile enemies.
"That's good," said Sergeant Bowers. "Great sight, isn't it? It's tough though, to be killed on the last day of the war, and almost at the last minute."
But Sergeant Bowers did not die.
Tenderly Hal and Chester helped him back of the lines where he could receive proper medical attention. His wounds were dressed and within two hours the sergeant of marines announced that he was feeling as fit as ever.
"Nevertheless, you'd better lie quiet for several days," said Hal.
"I guess not," declared Sergeant Bowers. "Why should a big healthy man like me be idle when there is so much work to do. Of course, I'll admit I'm naturally lazy and all that, but I don't like to stand around and see the other fellows do all the work."
"All the same," said Chester, "I'll venture to say that when you get to bed you won't want to get up again in a hurry."
"As for that," said Sergeant Bowers, "I never do want to get up."
When night fell on the battlefield the clamor of the celebration waxed rather than waned. It seemed that there was no darkness. Rockets and a ceaseless fountain of star shells made the lines a streak of brilliancy across the face of France, while by the light of flares, the front with all its dancing, boasting, singing soldiers was as clearly visible as though the sun were still high in the heavens.
When morning dawned again, peace and quietness—the quietness that was strange and unbelievable—had transformed the front from a roaring, seething strip of madness into a rest camp. Rather, it had that appearance until a bugler broke the spell.