They may not have understood his words, but there was no
misunderstanding the meaning of that black sinister muzzle of the
machine gun with a hundred deaths behind it. They were trapped, and
their hands went up with cries of "_Kamerad!_" in token of surrender.

On that part of the line the battle was over, for the plan did not
contemplate going beyond the second trench at that time. The American
boys had won and won gloriously. From all parts of the trench, on a
two-mile front, groups of captives were coming sullenly out with uplifted
hands, to be herded into groups by their captors and sent to the rear.

"Glory hallelujah!" cried Bart, as he removed his mask and wiped his
streaming face. "And no gas, either."

"Some scrap!" gasped Billy, as he sank exhausted to the ground.

"Did them up to the Queen's taste," chuckled Tom.

"We certainly put one over on the Huns that time," grinned Frank
happily.

And while they stand there, breathless and exulting, it may be well for
the benefit of those who have not previously made the acquaintance of
the American Army Boys to sketch briefly their adventures up to the time
this story opens.

Frank Sheldon, Bart Raymond, Tom Bradford and Billy Waldon had all been
born and brought up in Camport, a thriving American city of about
twenty-five thousand people. They had known each other from boyhood,
attended the same school, played on the same baseball nine and were warm