iron and concrete to form the roof of the commander's
dugout. The sides of the decrepit structure bulged outward and were
prevented from bursting by timber props radiating on all sides like the
legs of a centipede. A mule team stood in front of the dugout.

"What's that?" the whispering lieutenant inquired in hushed tones from a
soldier in the road, as he pointed over the mules to the battalion
headquarters.

"What's what?" the soldier replied without respect.

The obscurity of night is a great reducer of ranks. In the mist officer
and man look alike.

"Why, that?" repeated "Whispering Willie" in lower, but angrier tones.
"What's that there?" he reiterated, pointing at the mules.

"Can't you see it's mules?" replied the man in an immoderate tone of
voice, betraying annoyance.

We were spared what followed. The lieutenant undoubtedly confirmed his
rank, and the man undoubtedly proffered unto him the respect withheld by
mistake. When "Whispering Willie" joined us several minutes later in the
dugout, his helmet rode on the back of his head, but his dignity was on
straight.

The Battalion Commander, Major Griffith, was so glad to see us that he
sent for another bottle of the murky grey water that came from a well on
one side of a well populated graveyard not fifty yards from his post.

"A good night," he said; "haven't seen it so quiet in three years. We
have inter-battalion relief on. Some new companies are taking over the
lines. Some of them are new to the front trenches and I'm going out with
you and put them up on their toes. Wait till I report in."

He rang the field telephone on the wall and waited for an answer. An oil
lamp hung from a low ceiling over the map table. In the hot, smoky air
we quietly held our places while the connection was made.

"Hello," the Major said, "operator, connect me with Milwaukee." Another
wait----

"Hello, Milwaukee, this is Larson. I'm talking from Hamburg. I'm leaving
this post with a deck of cards and a runner. If you want me you can get
me at Coney Island or Hinky Dink's. Wurtzburger will sit in here."

"Some code, Major," Lincoln Eyre, correspondent, said. "What does a pack
of cards indicate?"

[Illustration: GRAVE OF FIRST AMERICAN KILLED IN FRANCE

Translation: Here Lie the First Soldiers of the Great Republic of the
United States of America, Fallen on French Soil for Justice and for
Liberty, November 3rd, 1917]

"Why, anybody who comes out here when he doesn't ha