ied the American captain. "We lost him last October, when we
were in the front line down in the Luneville sector. He was captured
with eight others by the Germans."

"Well, we've got him over here on your right flank. He came into our
lines this morning--" the French officer started to say.

"Bully," came the American interruption over the wire. "He's escaped
from the Germans and has come clear through their lines to get back to
his company. He'll get a D. S. C. for that. We'll send right over for
him."

"But when we questioned him," replied the Frenchman, "he said he left
your lines only last night on patrol and got lost in No Man's Land."

"I'll come right over and look at that party, myself," the American
captain hastily replied.

He reached the French officer's dugout several hours later and the
suspect was ordered brought in.

"He must be crazy, sir," the French orderly said. "He tried to kill
himself a few minutes ago and we have had to hold him."

The man was brought into the dugout between two poilus who held his
arms. The American captain took a careful look and said:

"That's not our man. He wears our uniform correctly and that's our
regulation identification tag. Both of them must have been taken away
from our man when he was captured. This man is an impostor."

"He's more than that," replied the Frenchman with a smile. "He's a
German spy."

The prisoner made no reply, but later made a full confession of his act,
and also gave to his interrogators much valuable information, which,
however, did not save him from paying the penalty in front of a firing
squad. When he faced the rifles, he was not wearing the stolen uniform.

CHAPTER X

INTO PICARDY TO MEET THE GERMAN PUSH

Toward the end of March, 1918, just at the time when the American
Expeditionary Forces were approaching the desired degree of military
effectiveness, the fate of civilisation was suddenly imperilled by the
materialisation of the long expected German offensive.

This push, the greatest the enemy had ever attempted, began on March
21st, and the place that Hindenburg selected for the drive was Picardy,
the valley of the Somme, the ancient cockpit of Europe. On that day the
German hordes, scores upon scores of divisions, hurled themselves
against the British line between Arras and Noyon.

Before that tremendous weight of manpower, the Allied line was forced to
give and one of the holding British armies, the Fifth, gave gr