“Hear that!” I cried. “They are almost here! Help is coming!”
But the Germans had heard it too. That which had encouraged us warned them. They were gathering for a final rush upon us. Why they had not rushed us before was a mystery to me (for I had been expecting it) unless they thought to fight safely—and in the end were confident they would get us.
“Pick them off!” I cried. “Don’t let one of them get away!” It was a foolish command, perhaps, for there was a big band of them. Crack! Crack! Crack! and every rifle and machine-gun did its work, until they were dangerously near. Just then I felt a sharp blow on my left arm, which made me drop the Browning gun.
We fell back a few yards to get time, but it wouldn’t do! “Stand up, men!” I cried. “Go for them with your bayonets!”
In another instant, volley after volley from our rescuers sent the Boche staggering back. We were rescued.
I had turned my head to see our comrades who had delivered us, when my foot caught between two stones. In trying to liberate it, I wrenched my ankle sadly. Before I could get away I was seized by two Boches and absolutely carried away as a prisoner of war.
My only consolation was that I had made a good fight. And that was a consolation; though being a prisoner to the Boche was not.
The result of the fight, as I learned later, was that a small part of the German line was driven back from their strong position, many killed, and many prisoners taken. We had made good.
Still I was far from being reconciled. A prisoner seldom is.