Blood gushed from a wound in the shoulder, but the soldier spirit did not desert him.

"Here, Demange!" he called to the French attache, "Hold my head.

And you, Thompson and Allen, see if you cannot bind this shoulder." The Norwegian and Hollander bound the wound as well as they were able.

"Reichman!" the injured man whispered, "I am going to die in a few minutes, and I wish you would write a letter to my wife." The American attache hastily procured paper and pencil, and while shells and shrapnel were bursting over and around them the wounded man dictated a letter to his wife in Holland.

Blood flowed copiously from the wound and stained the grass upon which he lay.