It was in a bomb proof shelter of a first line trench, in the middle of the night, at Sillery-Sur-Marne, that I met the “American,” whose real name was Dubois. I did not then understand French and had been placed on guard by a French corporal who could not speak English. He pointed to the hole, then at the Boche trench opposite, and walked away. The post was well protected by sandbags and solid timbers overhead, with an observation hole, one inch deep by three inches wide, cut into armor plate, in front. The usual, intermittent warfare was in progress, and it suddenly developed into a battle. The post was out on an angle. Rifle clashes were all about. No one was near in the open trench. So, getting uneasy, I became afraid I was cut off or left behind. I started toward the trench just as a big shell burst there. I ducked back, concluded the sheltered post was better than the open trench, then glued my eye on the 1 × 3 observation hole. Yes, no doubt, the Germans were advancing in mass formation. I could see, through the little hole, against the sky line, the bayonets on their guns. A noise near my ear compelled my attention. Then I felt and saw better. Those bayonets were hairs, sticking straight out from a big, fat, impudent rat, who sniffed along and looked through the hole squarely into my eye. I spat at the rat, which retreated a few inches, then stopped to await developments. This nerve angered me and I started to go outside to throw a rock at the rodent, when a voice behind said in English,—“Damn it, that cussed sergeant has plugged it up.” From the shelter I could see a nondescript figure clad in an old, abbreviated bath-robe, tassels hanging down in front, shoes unlaced, rifle in hand, ruefully gazing at a new stack of sandbags, which blocked a small exit into “No-Man’s-Land.” He might have been a soldier but he did not look it. He might have been French, but America was stamped all over that free-moving, powerful figure, in his quick acting, decisive manner and set jaws, square-cut, like a paving block. Thus, we two Americans, who had arrived from different directions, each animated by the same idea, sat down at the jumping off place amid those unnatural surroundings and got acquainted. It was bizarre. The devilishness, the beauty, alternately, shocked the feelings or soothed the senses. Darkness and grotesque shadows, intermingled with colored illumination, scattering streams of golden hail, followed by red flame and acolytes, while sharp, white streaks of cannon fire winked, blinked, and were lost in the never-ending din. Between the occasional roll of musketry and the rat-rat-tat-tat of machine guns, we watched the pyrotechnic display and talked. Yes, he was an American, and had been ten months without a furlough. He had been out in front sniping all the afternoon. That cheapskate sergeant, who is always nosing around, must have missed him and closed up the outlet.