In the darkness--locomotives, auto lights in the fighting zone--a heavily loaded truck was struck by a train. The truck was overturned down an embankment, imprisoning the two men on it, killing one almost instantly and seriously injuring the other. Spurred by the latter's groans and appeals for help an officer was directing a squad of men with crowbars and sticks in an effort to lift the truck when the former actor came up. The men were making no progress in budging the heavy wreck while there was a possibility, if they did, that it would crash down on the still living man. "I think I can get the man out, sir if I may try," the New Yorker said saluting the officer. "Who are you?" the officer asked surprised at the interruption. "I'm a Yank, sir," he replied, using the popular designation for Americans in the British army. "What's your rank?" continued the officer, determined that the man be rescued properly if at all. "Master engineer, sir," the American answered. Evidently that was sufficient for the officer, for he at once assented with: "You may try. Lend him a hand men." The "Yank" took a shovel and started tunnelling under the truck. As he wormed himself into the little hole, the shovel was abandoned for a bayonet and he pushed the dirt back with his hands to others, who threw it aside. After an hour's work, he had the dead man out. Another hour, and he had burrowed molelike, to the side of the other man, who still was conscious. "Do you want to take a chance? It'll be torture getting out," he said to the truck driver. "Anything to get from here to die outside," the man gasped. A rope was shoved in and the American tied it around the man's legs. Slowly, while he guided the battered body of the now unconscious man, comrades pulled them both back through the narrow tunnel. "I'll see that you're mentioned in regimental orders for your efforts," said the officer to the exhausted "Yank," and he did. The truck driver had an arm broken, a shoulder crushed and a fractured skull. He was rushed to a hospital on a chance that his life might be saved after so much effort. The work was not in vain, for a few days ago a letter was received from him, well again at his home in England, saying to the former movie star: "The latch string of this home in Leicester is always hanging out for you." ---- "WELL, I'LL BE--!" ---- THEY'RE ALL HERE. ---- "Fat Casey!" "Well, I'll be--!" After seven years Gabby and Fat Casey came face to face on a snow-covered country hillside in France. Gabby played right tackle on the football team out in Chicago in his sophomore year. Casey, a senior, was center and a bother to the trainer because he would surround two bits' worth of chocolate caramels every day, adding to the dimension that won him his nickname.