andscape emerged from the gloom and receded again, like a
series of pictures thrown upon a screen. All of this was so new, so
terrible, I doubted its reality. Indeed, I doubted my own identity, as
one does at times when brought face to face with some experiences which
cannot be compared with past experiences or even measured by them. I
groped darkly, for some new truth which was flickering just beyond the
border of consciousness. But I was so blinded by the glamour of the
adventure that it did not come to me then. Later I understood. It was my
first glimmering realization of the tremendous sadness, the awful
futility of war.

CHAPTER VI

PRIVATE HOLLOWAY, PROFESSOR OF HYGIENE

The following morning we wandered through the trenches listening to the
learned discourse of the genial professors of the Parapet-etic School,
storing up much useful information for future reference. I made a serious
blunder when I asked one of them a question about Ypres, for I pronounced
the name French fashion, which put me under suspicion as a "swanker."

"Don't try to come it, son," he said. "S'y 'Wipers.' That's wot we calls
it."

Henceforth it was "Wipers" for me, although I learned that "Eeps" and
"Yipps" are sanctioned by some trench authorities. I made no further
mistakes of this nature, and by keeping silent about the names of the
towns and villages along our front, I soon learned the accepted
pronunciation of all of them. Armentieres is called "Armenteers";
Balleul, "Bally-all"; Hazebrouck, "Hazy-Brook"; and what more natural
than "Plug-Street," Atkinsese for Ploegsteert?

As was the case wherever I went, my accent betrayed my American birth;
and again, as an American Expeditionary Force of one, I was shown many
favors. Private Shorty Holloway, upon learning that I was a "Yank,"
offered to tell me "every bloomin' thing about the trenches that a bloke
needs to know." I was only too glad to place myself under his
instruction.

"Right you are!" said Shorty; "now, sit down 'ere w'ile I'm goin' over me
shirt, an' arsk me anything yer a mind to." I began immediately by asking
him what he meant by "going over" his shirt.

"Blimy! You are new to this game, mate! You mean to s'y you ain't got any
graybacks!"

I confessed shamefacedly that I had not. He stripped to the waist, turned
his shirt wrong side out, and laid it upon his knee.

"'Ave a look," he said proudly.

The less sai