Jimmy McGee’s crew was still putting them over when fragments from a shell that had ruined the fourth section knocked his Nos. 4 and 6 down. Short-handed he kept the hot one-hundred-and-fifty-five howitzer going. O. D. was still hanging on the rammer and pushing the big shells in the breech.
Captain Henderson rushed into the pit.
“You men take shelter. Your gun’s the only one left in action.”
“Please don’t make us quit, Pop. Pardon, sir. Shoot the dope along. We’ll stick, won’t we, O. D.?”
“Bet we will, Jimmy!” shot back O. D., grimly, as he helped his No. 5 get the shell on the tray.
The answer had barely escaped his lips when a shell made a direct hit on a tree behind the pit. O. D. fell to the ground. Jimmy McGee sank down with a stifled groan. The two boys left in the pit toppled like young trees from the blow of a mighty ax.
The captain, who was untouched, raised Jimmy and got his knee under his head.
“Get Bacon or March, the first-aid men, quick!” commanded the captain to a man who was stumbling over the debris in the pit.
“Both of ’em are down, sir; got hit. The boys are havin’ a hell of a time with the wounded.” The man stooped to pick up Dick Dennis, who had been killed outright.
“My God!” groaned Henderson, tearing away Jimmy’s blouse to get at his wounded arm.