MEET ME ON THE BARRICADES

- Mount Vernon, but that he was lying in the damp by

the side of a concrete road in Spain.

It was all clear now—the weeks of fighting, the forced marches by night, hunger, cold, lice, and un- utterable fatigue. Surely this was no dream and yet this sort of thing had happened before and with such vividness that reality and dream seemed indis- tinguishable.

He opened his eyes fearfully. Yes, it was true. Here to his right was the concrete road, and here at his side lay his mud-caked rifle and equipment. In the distance to the north he saw the flickering gun- flashes of an artillery bombardment. . . .

Stiflly, he raised himself on his elbows and looked around in the dark. On all sides he saw the indistinct outlines of prostrate, sleeping men. A whistle sounded and the sleeping troops stumbled heavily to their feet and fell into line. A command, and they marched, Simpson among them.

The road was choked with tractors, heavy artil- lery, lorries, cavalry and infantrymen. What havoc the enemy could wreak if he but knew!

Suddenly, the darkness was stabbed by bursts of red flame. Shrapnel! Hissing, wailing, snarling, the shells came, one after another. There was confusion everywhere. The hoarse shouting of commands, the

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