Into the Starry Heavens (Continued from Page 11) lunged fiercely at him. He felt the cruel sickening pressure on his gun as the bayonet sank deep intothe abdomen of the German soldier. He saw the face of his opponent wrinkle in agony as he fell with a wild appealing look. He scarcely felt it when a passing American buddy slapped him on the shoulder and shouted to him, "That's the way to work it give 'em hell!" Carl stood for a few minutes above his fallen opponent and stared stupidly down at him. He at length sat down by the fallen soldier, who, like many others Carl had seen that day, was already dead. He removed the helmet, brushed back the dead man's hair and gazed down into the immobile features. The fallen German was a handsome lad, younger even than Carl himself. He couldn't have been over sixteen. His blond hair and clear-cut features gave him a look of youthful innocence not to be expected upon the field of battle. Carl held the dead youngster in his arms for he knew not how long. In the Hun's pocket, he found German identifica-tion papers and a small group photograph of the dead man and his beaming parents. These people would miss the return of their boy from French battlefields. As Carl raised him-self, he felt a queer burning sensation in his throat the world was reeling now. He threw his arm across his face to steady himself and stop the mad whirling sensation in his throbbing temples. His left hand felt strangely warm. He glanced at it dazedly. Quickly he drew his handkerchief to wipe away the German blood which ran down his fingers. As Carl stumbled his way across the barren wastes of the battlefields, only the bodies of the dead which littered the countryside told him that he was still following the tracks of his charging countrymen. The fierce bombardment had stopped a little now, and though Carl realized the danger he was in in becoming separated from his own soldiers, he never-theless stopped at the side of an old stump to rest his aching muscles and ease his hot puzzled brain. Somehow he was unable to get the picture of the youth he had killed out of his mind. He could still see the look of wild terror written over the young face of the German as the wounded youth crumpled lifelessly at his feet. He could still see the picture of his German parents waiting in vain for the return of their young son from the battlefield. It was a rotten war, this war, with its philosophy of kill or be killed. It was like something out of the Dark Ages. It was revealing all the cruelty and beastiality in human nature and was eclip-sing into utter darkness all the noble evolutions of centuries. It was like Carl's deep meditation was interrupted unexpectedly by the sharp report of a rifle and the whirring whine of a bullet as it plowed its way into the dirt at his feet. Instantly Carl's fogged mind cleared somewhat, and all his instincts of self-preservation asserted themselves. He grabbed his rifle and plummeted into a nearby shell hole. After a moment he peered about cautiously in an effort to discern the whereabouts of his adversary. Carl could see him not thirty yards from his own place of concealment, behind a dead tree which had somehow escaped total destruction from the guns of mortal men. He wore no helmet, but the field gray of the German army easily distinguished him. He undoubtedly had not seen Carl jump quickly into the shell hole, for he peered at intervals over a shielding mound of dirt in the direction in which he had first seen the American. Slowly, inch by inch, Carl wormed his way along a dark shadow formed by a small hill of earth which jutted from the landscape and cut off the light of the full, round moon. By now, he thought, he must be behind his German opponent. Slowly and quietly, he changed direction. He made no sound as he half crawled and half kneeled his way forward. On a rise of ground, he came into full view of the Hun. The German's back was toward him and provided an excellent target. Quickly and without a sound, Carl brought his gun up. Slowly and deliberately he lined the muzzle of his gun with the exposed back of the German. He placed his finger on the trigger. The sweat was creasing down his face; his heart was beating a mad tattoo against his chest, and his temples throbbed fiercely. Suddenly in his mind he saw again before him the startled pained face of the last German soldier he had killed. He just couldn't pull the trigger of his gun. He lowered the weapon and wiped away the mist which clouded his eyes and obscured his vision. Then his lips tightened abruptly. "Kill or be killed," he said fiercely between clenched teeth. He once more brought his rifle into a position to fire. The German had scarcely moved during the whole time his life was hanging in the balance. He was still searching the ground before him for some trace of the vanished American. Carl's finger was once more on the trigger of his gun. All his being was urging him to pull that trigger and yet, somehow, his finger would not obey. The still small voice within him was crying out, "Stop!" and from it there was no appeal. Abruptly he made up his mind. He lowered his rifle once more and quietly made his way back down the hill and onto the trail which led away from the place. With every step which took him away from the spot, Carl felt a quiet feeling of uplift and joy. His mind had cleared; the dull aching pains in his head and limbs had stranglely left him. The whole world seemed new and different. He looked unconsciously into the starry heavens. A look of satisfaction brightened his features. Perhaps, too, up there somewhere, was a young boy in a German uniform who was looking down upon him looking down, not with a heart full of hatred and fear, but with a look of approval and understanding. Page Fourteen Verna Lindsay Page Fifteen