Deporte was a revelation in human nature. Unselfish, he did the most arduous and often unnecessary work without a murmur. We were always together on guard and frequently drew the bad places. Once, during a five-hour bombardment, isolated, impossible to get relief to us, he did not complain. Another time, hearing a suspicious noise in front, I threw a grenade. We got such an avalanche in return it almost took our breath away—and Deporte laughed! Home on furlough, he overstayed his leave five days and drew sixty days prison. He smiled—it was sixty days on paper! One fine day we two were taken out in front during a bombardment. Captain Anglelli, with two holes in his helmet where a sniper’s bullet went in and out at Verdun, explained the situation to Deporte: “You have the grenades?” “Oui, mon capitaine.” “You see this hill?” “Oui, mon capitaine.” “It is higher than that trench.” “Oui, mon capitaine.” “You can throw into there?” “Oui, mon capitaine.” “The Boche will come through there.” “Oui, mon capitaine.” “You can hit him, he cannot reach you.” “Oui, mon capitaine.” “The American will stay with you?” “Oui, mon capitaine.” “Bomb hell out of them!” “Oui, mon capitaine.” “Hold them there and we will bag them.” “Oui, mon capitaine.” Smiling, the captain patted Deporte on the shoulder. Deporte, looking squarely into his eyes, grinned back. They understood each other, those two. It was not superior ordering inferior. It was man to man. I should like to tell all that happened that afternoon. It was the wind-up of a week’s bombardment, and we had a ripping time dodging about to avoid being maimed for life. We held a mountain top on the frontier. The Germans had the peaks opposite, where they had planted their heavy artillery. When the French drove back the invading Germans, the lines stopped within bombing distance—about thirty yards. We had the upper line, they the lower. We could throw grenades on them, but it was hard for them to reach us. So they planted their line with trench-mortars that throw aerial torpedoes, crapouillots and bombs the size of a stovepipe, also others which resemble a two-gallon demijohn. They came slow. We could see them—the wide-nosed torpedoes coming direct, the stovepipes hurtling end over end. These visible shells are only good for short range. We dodged them, but they kept us constantly on the move. The captain’s trench was flattened out—no need to watch that any more. The bombardment increased. Long range artillery from the mountains joined the short range mortars. The black smoke and noise from the Jack Johnsons and the yellow smoke from bursting shrapnel did not attract our attention from those three-finned torpedoes and hurtling crapouillots.