inley Johnston
is like a brother to me, having been my companion since boyhood. It
was with him that I had talked of enlisting long before I volunteered,
and it was he who enlisted with me. Though we became soldiers together
and entered the same company, the fortunes of war separated us in
France, and united us at a moment that was most gratifying to us both.
We sat down together and related our experiences. He was driving a
truck, and from him I learned of remarkable escapes that he had had
from death during the four days of the drive. On one occasion a Hun
shell, sufficient in size to have blown him to atoms, lodged in his
truck among supplies and failed to explode. I saw the shell myself,
also saw the hole in the top of the truck through which it passed and
can vouch for the truthfulness of the story. On another occasion a
shrapnel shell exploded on the road just to the right of his truck.
When it burst, it sent small pieces of metal flying in all directions.
About twenty-five or thirty of these passed through his truck, but not
one struck him. I saw the holes they made. The motor of the truck was
not as fortunate as the driver. A number of the pieces passed through
the hood and lodged in the engine. It was damaged considerably, but it
still ran and McKinley was able to complete his trip. I marveled at
these stories because they concerned a young man of whom I am very
fond, but escapes of this kind were numerous in these days and almost
every soldier who passed through the drive can truthfully tell of
similar escapes. We were facing death all the time and the remarkable
thing is that so many of us did pass through the drive and come out
alive.

CHAPTER VII

Gassed

One of the happiest days that I experienced during the period that I
was at war was on Friday, September 20, 1918. On this day, after
having made several visits to our new posts in the front line, I came
back to our billet, where, to my delight and surprise, I found eight
letters from home awaiting me. No one knows the joy that a letter from
home gives to a soldier on the firing line. It is like taking him out
of hell and placing him back on earth again. For several days we had
been in the very thickest of the fight, facing death at every minute,
seeing our companions fall around us, doing everything we possibly
could to help our side win, and willing to go back and do it all over
again without complaint--and then to get these welcome letters f