rea the Red
artillery officer had the best of the strategy and the shooting. He had
the most guns too.

Major Nichols was heard to remark the day after he had been through the
severe six gun barrage of the Reds who poured their wrath on the
Americans at 445 before they could but more than get slight shrapnel
shelters made, and had suffered four casualties, and the Royal Scots had
lost a fine Scotch lieutenant and two Russian soldiers. "This shelling
of course would be small peanuts to the French and British soldiers who
were on the Western Front, but to us Americans fresh from the fields and
city offices and shops of Michigan it is a little hell." And so the
digging was good at 445 during the last of October and the first of
November while Major Nichols with "M" and "I" and French and American
machine gun sections held this front.

On the fourth of November "I" Company supported by the French machine
gunners sustained a terrific attack by the Reds in powerful force,
repulsed them finally after several hours, with great losses, and gained
from General Ironside a telegram of congratulations. "I" Co. lost one
killed, one missing, two wounded, one of which was Lieut. Reese. After
that big attack the enemy left us in possession and we began to fear
winter as much as we did the enemy. The only event that broke the
routine of patrols and artillery duels was the accidental bombing by our
Allied airplane of our position instead of the half-mile distant enemy
trenches, one of the two 112-lb. bombs taking the life of Floyd Sickles,
"M" Company's barber and wounding another soldier.

Amusing things also are recalled. The American medical officer at the
front line one morning looked at a French soldier who seemed to be
coming down with a heavy cold and generously doped him up with hot water
and whiskey. Next morning the whole machine gun section of French were
on sick call. But Collins was wise, and perhaps his bottle was empty.

One day a big, husky Yank in "I" Company was brokenly "parlevooing" with
a little French gunner, who was seen to leap excitedly into the air and
drape himself about the doughboy's neck exclaiming with joy, "My son, my
son, my dear sister's son." This is the truth. And he took the Yank over
to his dugout for a celebration of this strange family meeting, filled
him up with sour wine, and his pockets with pictures of dancing girls.

Of course we were to learn to our discomfort and peril that winter was
th