While we talked I rolled me a cigarette, and all at once he broke off abruptly. “Give me some of that, too,” he demanded. I handed him “the makings” and he attempted a cigarette. He was so clumsy with it that I had to roll it for him. Then for the first and last time in my acquaintance with him I saw Pancho Villa smoke. Contrary to the stories that have gone out about him, he is a most abstemious man with regard to alcohol and tobacco. On Christmas night, 1913, happened the adventure which made me, quite by accident, and without intention, a hero. Also, I underwent the greatest fright of my life. My commander, Rodriguez, had received orders to make an attack that night straight-forward toward Ojinaga. After it was completely dark we formed and advanced, finding ourselves very soon among the willows lining the bank of the Rio Conchas, which we had to cross. It was my first taste of genuine warfare, and I cannot begin to tell you how it affected me, how ghastly it was among the willows in the vague darkness through which the column was threading its way with the utmost possible quietness. The beat of hoofs was muffled in the soggy ground, and the only sound to break the utter stillness of the night was the occasional clank of a spur or thin neigh of a horse. Then all at once, to the front and in the distance, came a boom—the single growling of a field-gun. Ping! Ping! Ping! broke out a volley of rifle shots, and then with its r-r-r-r-r! a Hotchkiss machine gun got to work. A staccato bam! bam! bam! as a Colt’s machine gun joined the chorus. Somewhere troops were going into serious action. That was no skirmishing. We finally crossed the river and dismounted. Part of the brigade had gone astray. Rodriguez cursed impatiently and incessantly under his breath until it joined us. He was a born cavalry leader, mad for action. Any sort of waiting lacerated his nerves. In line, with rifles trailing, we moved across the unknown terrain of low, rolling hills. On our front there had been no firing. Then all at once, directly before us and not far ahead, sounded a startled “_Qui vive?_” and an instant’s silence while the surprised outpost of the enemy waited for an answer. “_Alerta! Alerta!_” sounded his shrill alarm. Hell broke open around us then. Rifles, machine guns and cannon opened fire all at once. Bullets whined above our heads and bursting shrapnel fell around us. We had just come to an irrigation ditch, six feet wide, with a high wire fence on the further bank of it. “Stay here till they’re all across and look for skulkers,” Trinidad Rodriguez gave himself time to order me, then leaped across the ditch and began to run toward the fence. “Come on here, boys!” he shouted. The men were quickly across. I followed, or tried to, and just as my front foot touched the further bank the clay crumbled. Down I went into the ditch.