ught, when in came an officer. After
that I was ignored, to the huge delight of the Tommies, who joshed
me unmercifully. They discovered that my middle name was Derby, and
they christened me "Darby the Yank." Darby I remained as long as I
was with them.

Some of the questions the men asked about the States were certainly
funny. One chap asked what language we spoke over here. I thought
he was spoofing, but he actually meant it. He thought we spoke
something like Italian, he said. I couldn't resist the temptation,
and filled him up with a line of ghost stories about wild Indians
just outside Boston. I told him I left because of a raid in which
the redskins scalped people on Boston Common. After that he used to
pester the life out of me for Wild West yarns with the scenes laid
in New England.

One chap was amazed and, I think, a little incredulous because I
didn't know a man named Fisk in Des Moines.

We went back to the trenches again and were there five days. I was
out one night on barbed wire work, which is dangerous at any time,
and was especially so with Fritz in his condition of jumpy nerves.
You have to do most of the work lying on your back in the mud, and
if you jingle the wire, Fritz traverses No Man's Land with his
rapid-firers with a fair chance of bagging something.

I also had one night on patrol, which later became my favorite
game. I will tell more about it in another chapter.

At the end of the five days the whole battalion was pulled out for
rest. We marched a few miles to the rear and came to the village of
Petite-Saens. This town had been fought through, but for some
reason had suffered little. Few of the houses had been damaged, and
we had real billets.

My section, ten men besides myself, drew a big attic in a clean
house. There was loads of room and the roof was tight and there
were no rats. It was oriental luxury after Bully-Grenay and the
trenches, and for a wonder nobody had a word of "grousing" over
"kipping" on the bare floor.

The house was occupied by a very old peasant woman and a very
little girl, three years old, and as pretty as a picture. The old
woman looked ill and sad and very lonesome. One night as we sat in
her kitchen drinking black coffee and cognac, I persuaded her to
tell her story. It was, on the whole, rather a cruel thing to ask,
I am afraid. It is only one of many such that I heard over there.
France has, indeed, suffered. I set down here, as nearly as I can
trans