Under the alamo trees I found one of the photographers and a moving-picture man. They were lying flat on their backs near a fire, around which squatted twenty soldiers, gorging ravenously flour _tortillas_, meat and coffee. One proudly displayed a silver wrist-watch. "That used to be my watch," explained the photographer. "You see we hadn’t had anything to eat for two days, and when we came past here these boys called us and gave us the most magnificent feed I have ever tasted. After that I just couldn’t help giving them a present!" The soldiers had accepted the gift communally and were agreeing that each should wear it for two hours; from then on until the end of life.... *CHAPTER XII* *CONTRERAS’ MEN ASSAULT* Wednesday my friend the photographer and I were wandering across a field when Villa came by on his horse. He looked tired, dirty, but happy. Reining up in front of us, the motions of his body as easy and graceful as a wolf’s, he grinned and said, "Well, boys, how is it going now?" We answered that we were perfectly contented. "I haven’t time to worry about you, so you must be careful not to go into danger. It is bad—the wounded. Hundreds. They are brave, those _muchachos_; the bravest people in the world. But," he continued delightedly, "you must go and see the hospital train. There is something fine for you to write your papers about...." And truly it was a magnificent thing to see. The hospital train lay right behind the work train now. Forty box-cars, enameled inside, stenciled on the side with a big blue cross and the legend, "Servicio Sanitario," handled the wounded as they came from the front. They were fitted inside with the latest surgical appliances and manned by sixty competent American and Mexican doctors. Every night shuttle trains carried the seriously hurt back to the base hospitals at Chihuahua and Parral. We went down through San Ramon and beyond the end of the line of trees out across the desert. It was already stinging hot. In front a snake of rifle fire unfolded along the line, and then a machine gun, "spat—spat—spat!" As we emerged into the open a lone Mauser began cracking down to the right somewhere. We paid no attention to it at first, but pretty soon we noticed that there was a little plumping sound on the ground around us—puffs of dust flew up every few minutes. "By God," said the photographer. "Some beggar’s sniping at us." Instinctively we both sprinted. The rifle shots came faster. It was a long distance across the plain. After a little we reduced it to a jog-trot. Finally we walked along, with the dust spurting up as before, and a feeling that, after all, it wouldn’t do any good to run. Then we forgot it....