test for the gas mask! That frail piece of rubber alone
stood between us and death. The slightest rent or leakage would be
fatal, as injury to the suit of the deep sea diver. These masks had been
issued in sizes 3, 4 and 5. Some fitted better than others; others bound
painfully about the temples. We had been trained to adjust them quickly
from "alert" to the face in seven seconds, and woe to him who breathed
before the clasp was on his nose, the tube in his mouth, or the chin
piece properly in place. Under ordinary conditions, they were supposed
to filter the poisonous air for thirty-six hours. It was extraordinary
conditions, however, rising either from faulty adjustment, rubber
strain, or mechanical injury that usually proved their undoing.

On that October day I had remained in the gas waves but four hours and
felt I had escaped without injury. Such, however, proved not my good
fortune. My mask had evidently not functioned properly and that night of
torture to body, head and eyes was accounted for in the simple words of
the kind Doctor Lugar:

"Chaplain, you are gassed."

A few days' nursing and care at the Field Hospital restored strength and
vigor needed for a new and even more interesting encounter.

On the afternoon of Sunday, October 25th, I had held services at three
o'clock in a dugout at Vieville-en-Haye. Carefully hidden in a forest
immediately south of this village were then located three of our large
guns. The boys had proudly named them, "President's Answer," "Theda
Bara" and "Miss McCarthy." They were throwing high explosive shells
along the Metz highway. The enemy was frantically replying with
eight-inch Howitzers from points some six kilometers north, dropping
shells at two-minute intervals into Vieville-en-Haye and its environs.

As there was much gas along this front, I had left "Jip" at home and was
using a Harley-Davidson cycle side-car Lieutenant Trainor of
Headquarters had kindly loaned me--further giving me daring Corporal
Plummer of Aurora, one of the most skillful of his chauffeurs.

Following the services our next work was a trip to Vilcey-sur-Trey, some
four kilometers away, at the eastern approach of Death Valley. Emerging
from the dugout our plans were quickly outlined. Taking advantage of the
regular two-minute intervals between falling shells, we planned to first
let one come over, then make a quick dash up the front street and get
out into the shelter of Death Valley before the ne