Sergeant Murphy was the type of man who is always an asset to a command. On the way to Europe he had been in charge of the kitchen police on board the transport and here had earned himself the name of "Spuds" Murphy. He was always faithful to whatever job he was detailed. When things were breaking badly he could always be depended on to cheer the men up by joking with them. He was an old fellow, bent and very gray, and he was physically unable to stand a lot of the racket, so I used to order him to stay behind with the kitchens when we went into action. One night, when the troops were moving up to the front line, I was standing by the side of the road checking off the platoons as they passed. I thought I recognized one figure silhouetted against the gray sky. A moment later I was positive when I heard, "Sure and if you feel that way about the Gairmans there're as good as beat." "Sergeant Murphy?" "Sor-r?" "What are you doing here? Didn't I tell you to stay with the kitchens?" "But I didn't be thinkin' the Major would be wantin' me to stay coffee coolin' all the time, so I just come up for a little visit with the men." The actual training consisted of practice with the hand grenade, rifle grenade, automatic rifle, rifle, and bayonet, and in trench digging. We had a certain amount of difficulty merging the troops in with the French. It was really very hard for men who did not speak the same language to get anywhere. In addition to this, the French temperament is so different from ours. They always felt that much could be learned by our troops watching theirs. But the soldier doesn't learn by watching. His eye doesn't teach his muscles service. The way to train men is by physical exercise and explanation, not by simply watching others train. At one time an artillery demonstration was scheduled. In it we were to see a rolling barrage illustrated and also destructive fire. The men paid no attention at all to the bombardment. A company commander described to me how the men lay down and rested when they got to the maneuvers ground. [Illustration: "CHOW" Drawn by Captain W. J. Aylward, A. E. F., 1918] "Whizz, Bill, hear that boy," casually remarked one, when the first shell went over. "What was it you said?" An interesting sidelight on our military establishment is afforded by the fact that on our arrival in France there was no one with the command who had ever shot an automatic rifle, thrown a hand grenade, shot a rifle grenade, used a trench mortar or a .37-millimeter gun. These were all modern methods of waging warfare, yet none of our military had been trained to the least degree in any of them. To all of us they were absolutely new. The closest any of us came to any previous knowledge was from occasional pictures we had seen in the illustrated reviews.