nd several bent over the pots on fires. Dorn's sweeping
gaze took in the whole scene, and his first quick, strange impression
was that these soldiers resembled ghouls who had lived in dark holes of
mud.

Kurt meant to make the most of his opportunity. To him, in his peculiar
need, this meeting would be of greater significance than all else that
had happened to him in France. The nearest soldier sat on a flattened
pile of straw around which the ground was muddy. At first glance Kurt
took him to be an African, so dark were face and eyes. No one heeded
Kurt's approach. The moment was poignant to Kurt. He spoke French fairly
well, so that it was emotion rather than lack of fluency which made his
utterance somewhat unintelligible. The soldier raised his head. His face
seemed a black flash--his eyes piercingly black, staring, deep, full of
terrible shadow. They did not appear to see in Kurt the man, but only
the trim, clean United States army uniform. Kurt repeated his address,
this time more clearly.

The Frenchman replied gruffly, and bent again over the faded worn coat
he was scraping with a knife. Then Kurt noticed two things--the man's
great, hollow, spare frame and the torn shirt, stained many colors, one
of which was dark red. His hands resembled both those of a mason, with
the horny callous inside, and those of a salt-water fisherman, with
bludgy fingers and barked knuckles that never healed.

Dorn had to choose his words slowly, because of unfamiliarity with
French, but he was deliberate, too, because he wanted to say the right
thing. His eagerness made the Frenchman glance up again. But while Dorn
talked of the long waits, the long marches, the arrival at this place,
the satisfaction at nearing the front, his listener gave no sign that he
heard. But he did hear, and so did several of his comrades.

"We're coming strong," he went on, his voice thrilling. "A million of us
this year! We're untrained. We'll have to split up among English and
French troops and learn how from you. But we've come--and we'll fight!"

Then the Frenchman put on his coat. That showed him to be an officer. He
wore medals. The dark glance he then flashed over Dorn was different
from his first. It gave Dorn both a twinge of shame and a thrill of
pride. It took in Dorn's characteristic Teutonic blond features, and
likewise an officer's swift appreciation of an extraordinarily splendid
physique.

"You've German blood," he said.

"Yes. But I