pon landing.

"That makes three dubs," said Guahn.

"You don't mean dubs," Stanton corrected him, "you mean duds and even
then you are wrong. Those were gas pills. They just crack open quietly
so you don't know it until you've sniffed yourself dead. Listen, you'll
hear the gas alert soon."

Even as he spoke, we heard through the firing the throaty gurgling of
the sirens. The alarm started on our right and spread from station to
station through the woods. We adjusted the respirators and turned our
muffled faces toward the firing line. Through the moisture fogged
glasses of my mask, I looked first upon my companions on this rustic
scaffold above the forest.

War's demands had removed our appearances far from the human. Our heads
were topped with uncomfortable steel casques, harder than the backs of
turtles. Our eyes were large, flat, round glazed surfaces unblinking and
owl-like. Our faces were shapeless folds of black rubber cloth. Our
lungs sucked air through tubes from a canvass bag under our chins and we
were inhabiting a tree top like a family of apes. It really required
imagination to make it seem real.

"Looks like the party is over," came the muffled remark from the masked
figure beside me. The cannonading was dying down appreciably. The
blinking line of lights in front of us grew less.

A terrific upward blast of red and green flame from the ground close to
our tree, reminded us that one heavy still remained under firing orders.
The flash seen through the forest revealed in intricate tracings the
intertwining limbs and branches of the trees. It presented the
appearance of a piece of strong black lace spread out and held at arm's
length in front of a glowing grate.

From the German lines an increased number of flares shot skyward and as
the cannon cracks ceased, save for isolated booms, the enemy machine
guns could be heard at work, riveting the night with sprays of lead and
sounding for all the world like a scourge of hungry woodpeckers.

"God help any of the doughboys that are going up against any of that
stuff," Griffin observed through his mask.

"Don't worry about our doughboys," replied Stanton; "they are all safe
in their trenches now. That's most likely the reason why our guns were
ordered to lay off. I guess Fritzie got busy with his typewriters too
late."

I descended the tree, leaving my companions to wait for the orders
necessary for their departure. Unfamiliar with the unmarked paths of
t