The 10th Field Signal Battalion, commanded by the brilliant and big-hearted Major Gustav Hirch of Columbus, Ohio, was a favorite rendezvous of mine. The nature of work of these Signal men appealed to me; and their nomadic habits co-ordinated happily with my duties, frequently requiring me, along the changing front, "to fold my tent with Arabs and silently steal away." They had direct charge of the Intelligence Maintenance of War work, and constituted the axes of liaison between the various Units of the Division. Their skill in the transmission of messages was most remarkable. Masking their operations in the language of secret signs and ciphers, they made use of the telephone, telegraph, radio, wig-wag, panel, carrier pigeon, blinker, and last, and perhaps most dependable of all, the living runner. The duty of the latter consisted in carrying messages to or from exposed positions when no other means would do. Usually a volunteer from any branch, he was selected because of courage, agility and ability to get through somehow, no matter how great the opposing odds. I was present in an Observation Post near Jolney talking to Colonel Lewis, when a runner came rushing across No Man's Land through a leaden hail, saluted, handed a message to Captain Payne, and fell unconscious at his feet. There were no greater heroes of the war. Operators and linesmen "carried on" under conditions demanding the greatest courage--remaining to the last in exposed positions like the wireless heroes of a sinking ship. I have known lines to be shelled and blown to pieces a dozen times during the day, and just as often repaired by daring linesmen. Frequently sharing their mess and dugouts, I cultivated the friendship, not only of their generous Commander, but of Captain Cash, of Abilene, Texas; Captain Jim Williams, of Troy, Alabama; and Lieutenant Phillips of Brooklyn, New York--three of the most beloved of soldiers. Lieutenant Andy O'Day, of Detroit, also with them, was heavily gassed at Jolney. Attached to the Battalion, too, was a brilliant young man, Lieutenant D'Orleans, French Army. He was from Brittany, had won the Croix de Guerre, and spoke English, if not fluently, at least interestingly. CHAPTER IX REMBERCOURT On Saturday night, November ninth, I had repaired to my dugout near Bouillonville, planning to say two Masses at distant points the following morning. I retired early to snatch a little rest. At midnight, Lieutenant D'Orleans rushed into the dugout and roused me, hoarsely whispering,--"Chaplain, a big movement is on!" Rolling from my blanket I hurried outside. The night was intensely dark; but there, in the valley before me, I could make out a long column of troops. For some days there had been growing signs and vague hints of a big attack impending. Was this its beginning?