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any man. finding one of his men asleep. he had drawn his pistol, and shot
him. Then, with haughty disregard for the angry looks and muttered oaths
of the other men, he had replaced the pistol in its holster. and marched
away.
In the American trenches John Rosendorf, now Sergeant Rosendorf. had
just awakened and was preparing to eat his supper before he reported for
duty. He was handed a note by a messenger. There were only a few
words, but a smile passed quickly across his face. Sergeant Rosendorf ate
his supper, experiencing all the while strange thrills as he thought of the
note and its contents. He reported for duty. As he had expected from
the message, the Americans, tense with excitement. were preparing to rush
the enemies' trenches.
Hours passed. The moon rose only to be hidden by black clouds that
raced over the sky. About three o'clock in the morning the Americans began
to advance cautiously. They had gone nearly hair the narrow space
between the trenches when the moon came from behind a cloud and flooded
the field with its cold, indifferent light. A sharp report from the Cerman
lines showed that they were aware for the first time of the attack. Throwing
aside all precaution, the Americans plunged forward. Sergeant Rosendorf
prepared to jump into the Cerman trench.
The Colonel in charge of the enemy saw him.
"Du verdammdter Esel, schlag'" he screamed.
The man whom he addressed aroused himself from his stupor and leaped
to attack Rosendorf. The latter parried the lunge, but his foot slipped and
he fell on the bayonet.
"Gottl Das war schrecklichl" mutlert"d the German soldier as he .vithdrew
his bayonet. He jabbed the blood-smeared blade into the trench wall
to clean it. He glanced down at the face of the man who lay dying at his
feet.
He started. Suddenly weak. he sank on his knees beside the American.
The sallow moonlight did not clearly reveal the laller's face. Then, too, it
was drawn in agony.
"It can not be," the Gennan whispered.
He passed his hand across the clammy brow of the man before him.
"Mein Bruder, ist's du? Johannes, mein lieber, kleiner Bruder, sprich,"
he begged.
Rosendorf opened his eyes. For a moment he stared dully up at the
German. A faint smile of recognition flashed in his eyes.
"Karl." he murmured.
For a moment the two brothers, one for Germany, one for America,
looked at each other.
"Cottr" gasped Karl.
"I have killed my brother."