DANGEROUS SERVICE

The Second Ammunition Train was slowly and painfully making its way over a shell-swept road leading into Somme-Py. German artillery had a perfect range and was scoring heavily.

During a lull in the rain of projectiles, the Engineers started to repair the damage. The hail of steel recommenced, but the engineers, with characteristic American courage, kept on with their work.

Far away down the road, a French camion was blown to bits. Then, as though placed by a huge, unseen hand, the spurts of smoke began creeping along the road at regular intervals.

A timid mule-skinner yelled: "Let's double tlme!" He was severely rebuked by one of his comrades.

A shell burst directly in front of the leading escort wagon. Two mules were promptly cut out of the harness, and once more the train moved on.

Another burst, and the bugler from the Ammunition Train, a German prisoner, and his French guard, were its ghastly toll.

There were many white, drawn faces now, but with grim determination the little cavalcade kept on its way—it's precious cargo still untouched—toward the distant slope of Blanc Mont.

"The marines and doughboys must get this ammunition by 5 o'clock," said the sergeant in charge, "and we must not fail them."

Another burst, and a corporal's horse was blown to pieces under him. The corporal jumped to his feet, his legs covered with the animal's blood. A passing ambulance driver, seeing the blood, called out: 'Hey buddie, don't weaken; here's an ambulance."

"Ambulance, h—l-" retorted the corporal. "What I want is another horse!"

At last Somme-Py was reached. The Germans were pouring a steady stream of gas shells into the town. Gas masks saved the day, although here another noncommissioned officer was left in the care of medical men.

On through the town and up the slope of Blanc Mont. Someone remarked: "Where in h—l are those Marines? Ain't they ever gonna stop?" Suddenly the air was rent by the sharp cracking of machine guns, followed by the whistle of bullets.

Familiar O. D. and forest-green figures were seen dodging through the stub pines. The rattle of musketry followed, and a marine captain stopped in his headlong rush to yell: "Hey, there, Ammunition Train! Where in h—l are you going—over the top? Unload that stuff and get out of here! Don't you know you're in the front line?"

The ammunition was unloaded and the teams clattered off down the hill at double-time—and then some! Many small holes in the wagons and covers bore mute testimony to the Hun's markmanship.

Such was the life of Company G, Second Ammunition Train, at Blanc Mont Ridge.

—Pvt. V. H. Burlingame.