forgotten my French, but it came in very good play, for she fell for it, demanded my pardon most profusely and immediately forked over a ticket. It was just about time for the train. I knew I couldn’t pull any smooth gag on this hardboiled M. P., so I started to rush through, handing him my railroad ticket. “Hey,” and he grabbed me, “where are you going?” “I’m going to take this train for Bar-le-Duc,” I replied hurriedly. “Well,” he demanded, “where’s your yellow ticket?” “What yellow ticket?” I said, surprised that such a thing even existed. “You’ve got to have a yellow ticket before you can pass through this gate,” he said, emphatically and not permitting argument. “Here, here’s my railroad ticket,” I repeated nervously, casting my eyes on the train. “I don’t care,” he said in a voice indicating that his patience was about gone, “where’s your yellow ticket?” “I haven’t got one,” I replied. “I didn’t know I had to have that.” “You go back there,” and he pointed to one of the windows and explained in detail as to one who was good and dense, “see the M. P. and get your orders stamped and he will give you a yellow ticket, and you can’t get by this gate until you do.” “Oh, Hell! Come on, Buddy,” I said, “I can’t do all that. I’m just coming back from leave. If I do all that I’ll miss my train. Come on, Bud, let me by. Why, I’ll get K. P. for a week if I don’t get there to-night. It’s my last chance. You wouldn’t hold up a buddy that way, would you?” and believe me, I looked appealingly. He looked at me a moment. The conductor was already blowing his little whistle signal and then he gave up. “Go on! The war is over,” he said. It was the example of the American soldier and the big soft spot they have for their buddies. He couldn’t resist the chance to help a pal. So I passed the gates and got on the train and went to Bar-le-Duc. On the train I ran onto a guy I knew and we talked over old times and I got to Chaumont-sur-Aire, which was the old headquarters, and I ran in and saw my old friend, Philip Roosevelt, who was then the Army Pursuit Operations Officer. Then I got on the telephone and called Brereton, who was then up at Longuyon preparing to move to Treves with the Army of Occupation. He was Chief of Staff for General Mitchell, who was then commanding the Aviation of the Army of Occupation. “Is this Major Brereton?” I said from force of habit, for he was a Major when I knew him last. “Yes—Colonel Brereton,” he corrected. “This is Lieutenant Haslett,” I called. “WHO?” he fairly yelled. “Lieutenant Haslett,” I replied. “Who do you mean,” he demanded—“Elmer?” “Yep,” I said, “that’s right.” “Lieutenant Hell!” he called in old form, “you’ve been promoted for months and I’ve been waiting for a month to be decorated with you for Château-Thierry.” “Well, let’s not argue over technicalities,” I answered. “How am I going to get up there?” “How are you going to get up here?” he repeated, very surprised.