A corporal, who, for obvious reasons, changed from Battalion C to Battalion G, speaking of early days said: “The Americans were the dirtiest, lousiest, meanest soldiers we had. They would crawl into their dugout, roll into their blanket; and, when I went to call them for duty, the language they used would burn a man up, if it came true. Yes,” he continued, “one night I heard an awful noise down the trench;—it was bitter cold and sound traveled far, so I hurried on to see what was wrong. A little snot from New York was making all the racket. He jumped up and down, trying to keep warm, his feet keeping time to his chattering teeth, till he wore a hole through the snow to solid footing. Every time he jumped, his loaded rifle hit the ground. “You fool, don’t you know that thing will go off?” “Don’t I know. Of course I know. What do I care? Do you know what happened in Section 2 last week, when a gun went off?” “No.” “It accidentally killed a corporal!” The officers, however, noticed, after the first shock of misery and suffering, that they pulled themselves together, tightened their belts and made no complaint. On the rifle range, they held the record. On route march, they were never known to fall out. In patrol work, between the lines, others would get all shot up and never come back. The Americans always got there; always returned; if shot up, they brought back their comrades. They were soon looked upon with respect and pride. They learned faith in their officers. The officers, in turn, found them dependable. It was customary for visiting officers to ask to see the Americans. When so ordered, this aggregation of automobile racers, elephant hunters, college students, gentlemen of leisure, professional boxers, baseball players, lawyers, authors, artists, poets and philosophers, were trotted out, and stood silently in line, while Sergeant Morlae, his head on one side, extending his finger with the diamond on would say,—“These are the Americans, mon General.” Did they like it? They did not. They were unable to vent their rage on the general; but they did on Morlae. True, he had made soldiers of them, in spite of themselves. He had shamed, bluffed, bullied, scolded them into being soldiers. They did not mind that. They knew it had to be. But, being placed on exhibition got their goat. However, each man carved out his own particular block and put his mark thereon. Strong characters, they cannot be passed over living, or forgotten dead. M. Viviani said, at Washington:—“Not only has America poured out her gold, but her children have shed their blood for France. The sacred names of America’s dead remain engraved in our hearts.” [Illustration: EIGHT AMERICANS OF THE LEGION (Taken on the Summit of Ballon d’Alsace, August, 1915) Left to right—Zinn, wounded; Seeger, killed; Narutz, killed; Bowe, wounded; Bouligny, wounded three times; Dowd, killed; Scanlon, wounded; Nilson, killed. ]