When I took the first steps outside my legs trembled and I believed I would be incapable of accomplishing the task I had imposed upon myself. Fear shook me. I walked along the street. Gradually I felt stronger. Suddenly, after a few minutes' walk, I felt as calm as if I had been walking along a promenade at Nice---- Despite the flurry, the smoke and brick dust which I had to breathe, I continued the route, taking pleasure in my folly, experiencing an unhealthy and dangerous joy---- Soon, I found myself at the side of the machine which had not been touched, but an unexploded 100-shell was half buried on its flank---- I lifted the shell out and, carrying it in my arms, took the road for the shelter. The returning was effected like my going, through a cloud of dust and smoke of bursting projectiles. Never had a walk done me so much good and when I entered the dugout with my "precious souvenir" I thought: "This time I am armored!" I walked through the group of men and deposited the shell on the captain's table. "What was that you said? You are both chumps and your machine is uninjured, but I found this alongside of it. I make you a present of it so it will be a reminder of to-day----" And immediately they smiled and became themselves again---- K. C., VERDUN. _February_ 28, 1916. It is night, but a terrible night--the battle is unchained. The heavens, black as ink, are brightened each instant by the flashes of explosions. German shell which fall in the city make a louder noise than during the preceding days, as if they broke in a cellar---- Not a cry--not a wail--stoicism---- On the roads around the city there is a great bustle of camions, gun carriages and caissons. Then there is the hasty shuffling of troops going into action to-night, and who will relieve their comrades holding the line over there. All these movements are made silently, without cries, without useless words, but everything moves rapidly---- I direct myself toward the city, when suddenly a small machine stops at my side. A man of athletic stature, who was seated at the chauffeur's side, jumps lightly out of the machine and approaches me. He flashes his electric pocket lamp, no doubt to see who I am. At first I had taken him for an Englishman, by reason of his khaki uniform. "Officer?" he said to me. "Yes, what can I do for you? You are English?" "No, American." "American!" "Yes, I'm a K. C." "_Cassé!_[23] Who is it that is hurt?" I said this with such an accent of chagrin and almost of despair, that he broke into a loud laugh. "No, not _cassé_, but K. of C.," and he held up his sleeve on which were found the two letters. He then spoke volubly enough in English, of which I could not understand a single word, but which certainly must have been of lively interest, to judge by the heat of his discourse. Fortunately he continued in French: "Lost the road----" "Where are you going?" "Fort Souville----" "What are you doing?"