II

At last the opportunity

Loomed large in fact and view,

And every near-sleuth in the bunch

Saw that his hunch was true.

Because, upon an inky night,

When mist hung o'er the nation,

The captain took a picked patrol

To gather information.

And as they crept on hands and knees,

In Land No Man may own,

Their stomachs struck the dew-wet grass

With never sound or moan.

( The reason being that the Boche,

On selfsame errand set,

Were creeping hitherward unseen —

And likewise mad and wet. )

‘ Twas then the detail turned their heads

To where their captain lay,

And every rifle in that squad

Was pointed straight his way.

And he? He running true to form,

Two inches raised his chin,

And spouted German volubly

In accents clear and thin.

Click, click, click, click, click, down the line

Each safety-catch turned o'er,

But the captain did not hesitate,

And merely talked the more.

In conversation friendly

He rambled gently on

Unto the Boches’ leader,

Till it was nearly dawn.

The while his men they “covered” him —

The while their hearts grew black —

And you could feel the trigger fingers

Squeezing up the slack.

Just what the purport of his last

Remark was, no one knew,

But in a burst of confidence

A Boche head rose in view....

Across the four-fold stillness

That covers No Man's Land,

An automatic pistol shot

Rang clear and piercing and

The next day German papers told

How Captain Skunk von Skee

Was killed by a Yankee captain,

And Yankee treachery.