This man was deeply interested in bayonet fighting, and would question our instructors until they loathed the sight of him. He studied the matter from all angles and would endeavor to get the man next to him to act the part of an attacking Hun in order to show us his own method of rendering Fritz _hors de combat_. Nobody ever volunteered as there is no knowing what he would have done in his eagerness to spit something with that bayonet. He devoured all that he could find in drill books about "Hun Sticking." He was particularly nerve trying at night, when we hobnobbed at cards or were reading before "Lights out." Everything would be quiet, except for the low murmur of conversation and an occasional heartfelt oath from a loser in the poker party. Then suddenly we would almost jump out of our skins, as a figure hurled itself at the rifle rack, seized a rifle from the stand, fixed the bayonet and rushed up and down the hut furiously parrying and lunging at an imaginary foe. Oblivious of everything except dispatching the figurative German, he would rush here and there while we endeavored to avoid the flickering steel. The man was enormously strong, and agile as a cat, and all we could do was to dodge as well as we could until his paroxysm passed and he had settled down to work out some other scheme for Boche killing. We swore we would murder him if he did not cease these imitations of a madman, but glad are we all who knew him that we took his wild behavior good naturedly, for a very short time afterwards he performed deeds of the most self-sacrificing kind under a wall of shell fire. Not a few men owe their lives today to his devotion to duty on that awful day at Ypres. One night I was guilty of a betrayal of trust. I was detailed to watch some carloads of coal that stood in a siding. My trick (sentry-go) lasted from four to eight in the morning. The rain was tumbling down as I floundered through the ooze to relieve the other sentry. After the sergeant of the guard had gone, I felt really miserable. There was only one place where I could stand with any degree of comfort and this was a sort of a step that stood up a few inches above the surrounding sea of mud, like a tiny rock in a swamp of brown colored soup. Balancing myself precariously on this forlorn hope, I thought I would pass the time by singing softly to myself. This seemed to bring the rain down with redoubled force so I stopped and took to cursing instead. Then the disaster came. I was gazing through the murk at nothing when a desire to stretch overtook me; I did so and the rifle overbalanced me. After several wild attempts to regain my balance, I floundered face down into the quagmire below. When I had partially digested the highly flavored mud, I addressed my surroundings with much feeling.