a forest trail. The mud from recent rains covered our
leggings and our heavy hobnail shoes. We came to a crossroads in the
heart of the Forest. Our wounded on stretchers were everywhere. I can
see now the bandaged eyes of the gassed patients, the armless sleeve
or the bared breast with the bloody dressings. I can see the silent
forms of those who would never fight again.

But my heart thrills as the white armband with its red cross comes out
sharp and distinct in the picture. Our doctors and surgeons were the
miracle-workers of that awful field of slaughter. And the ambulance
men were the angels of mercy to thousands whose life blood was wasting
fast away.

The "Y" man with his pack always received a sincere welcome. There was
a smile of gratitude as a piece of chocolate was placed in the mouth
of one whose hands were useless, or a cigarette and a light given to
another whose whole frame was aquiver from the shock of battle. There
were the eager requests of the Red-Cross men for extra supplies for
the boys whom they would see when Mr. Y-Man was not with them.

"A dead Hun is the only good Hun"--this was a war definition, and true
at least while the battle was on. Everywhere through the Forest were
Boche made "good" by American bullets. Near a dead German officer was
a group of our boys looking over the "treasures" which his pockets
held. There was also a photo of a French officer. Evidently, the Hun
had earlier in the war killed the Frenchman and taken his picture for
a souvenir. Was it poetic justice that the Hun should fall victim to a
Yank bullet, and that the photo of his captive, together with his own,
should be taken by his American slayer and given as souvenirs to a
Y.M.C.A. secretary?

I was one of a score of "Y" men who followed Farnsworth's division
into action, establishing hot chocolate stations and carrying on our
backs great packs of chocolate, cigarettes, and tobacco which we gave
away to the boys on the battlefield. There we met the wounded who,
having received first aid, were being carried on stretchers back to
the field dressing stations, where the army surgeons were working
feverishly under trees or in protected valleys. From here continuous
lines of stretcher-bearers with their precious burdens moved back to
the field hospitals.

On the edge of the Forest near Montfaucon and about three miles back
of the line was the nearest field hospital in an elaborate system
of German dugouts. The location