Evening of July 3d I was on guard in front of Fort Brimont, three kilometers from Rheims, when Dubois put his head around a corner and yelled, “Come on, we are going to Paris.” I paid no attention to him. I had not asked for a furlough, and, of course, did not expect any. A few minutes later Dubois roared, “Come on, you fool, don’t you know enough to take a furlough when you can get one? All Americans can go to Paris.” When the corporal came around I asked to be relieved, went to the captain and was told we had forty-eight hours permission; to pack up at once and go. We walked through the communication trenches to battalion headquarters among falling shells. These made Dubois stop and say: “Damn it, it would just be my luck to get killed now; I would not mind if I were coming back from Paris, but if the Boche get me now I shall not be able to rest in my grave.” At the battalion headquarters we were lined up in the darkness. An officer with a flashlight read off the names. Each man stepped out and received his furlough as his name was called. The officer stopped reading, Dubois still stood in line. Then he stepped up, saluted, and asked for his furlough. There was none. It was a dramatic moment. Sergeant Bouligny came out from the darkness, and a spirited argument occurred between him and the officer. The American sergeant then came over to Dubois and said: “It’s a damned shame. They held that five years (suspended sentence for sleeping, when lost by a patrol in ‘No-Man’s-Land’) over you. Now, man to man, I want you to promise me you will go right back to your company. I told them you would. I stood good for you. The colonel must sign that furlough. He is not here and we can’t do a thing to help you.” It was sad. The poor fellow was crushed. We walked away, leaving him in the darkness with his bitter thoughts. We arrived at Thill near midnight and were depositing our equipment at the guardhouse when a guard came and said to me: “The sentinel wishes to see you.” I went out and there was old Tex Bondt! “Yes,” he said, “I am sentinel tonight. Last night I was in prison. This is it, the prisoners are out working. I drew eight days for trying to be reasonable. Reason is all right in its place, but not in the army. They nearly worked me to death. We were carrying timbers to the front line to make dugouts—three men to a stick. I was in the middle and I am six foot three!” Next morning Bouligny and I tried to find some breakfast. The town was deserted, badly shot-up. Stores were empty, civilians gone. Prospects looked bad, when a gunny-sack was drawn back from a doorway, and a voice yelled out, in English: “Here, where in the devil are you fellows going? Come up and have a cup of coffee.” It was Tony Pollet, of Corona, New York.[D] ----- Footnote D: