It's the first case of cowardice in this unit and I'll take damned good
care that it will be the last. Grant, escort the prisoner back to the
wagon lines."

I could not help feeling sorry for the poor devil because, coward though
he was, his was one of those personalities that carried with it a sort
of likeableness, somewhat after the fashion of our time-honored
Falstaff, and his funk under fire made him liable to the extreme
penalty,--a firing squad. His teeth chattered like the keys of a
typewriter as he asked me, "What do you think will come o' it, Grant? Do
you think he really means it?"

I hadn't the heart to tell him what I really thought and strove to jolly
him by saying that the Major would feel in a better humor in the
morning, "and besides," said I, "when we take back those trenches
tomorrow, he will get over his flurry."

I turned my prisoner over to the guard of the wagon lines, first
informing the Quartermaster, and when he asked me what the trouble was,
I had to tell him of the variance of the prisoner's story told him and
that he told the Major, and that the Major directed that he be up for
orderly room in the morning. Without any further ceremony Scotty was
jammed in the clink.

It was now almost daybreak of the morning of the third day following our
first gas attack and, almost ready to drop with fatigue, I went over to
the wagon lines, gathered some straw and bags together under an
ammunition wagon, and was in a dead sleep in less time than it takes to
tell it.