It was now such a time, and Sergeant Harriman was sitting cross-legged in the ravine, assaulting with the point of his bayonet a can of Argentina beef. Events of late had left him shaken. He had entered the trenches with a handicap; he believed that he was a crusader reincarnate, engaged in the holy service of saving religion, morality, purity, and civilization from the barbaric hand of that nation whose people he referred to as Huns. He had enlisted because he was of draft age and would be unqualified to dodge the call of Congress, requesting him to join the selected army of the United States of America. Had he possessed a widowed mother, or a wife and child, he would as gladly have fought the Hun from an office desk in Kenosha. He had pierced the cover of the foul beef when a messenger from battalion headquarters parted the trees near Harriman and dropped in the ravine. Seeing Harriman, he spoke: “Is this the Third Platoon?” “It is, you know.” Harriman had picked up the postscript to his sentence from a man of many enlistments and whom he tried in many ways to emulate. “You one of the non-coms?” “Yes,” Harriman answered pleasantly. “Well.” The messenger reached in the leather saddle-bag suspended from his shoulders. “Got some mail for the Third Platoon. You take it?” “Bet I will.” Harriman fairly grabbed at the package of letters, so eager he was to see if it contained one for him. Yes, there it was. The one he had expected, waited for these many days. “Gillespie!” he called. “Gillespie, do you want to give out the mail?” Gillespie hurried forward, got the package, and ran to the middle of the ravine, calling: “Mailo, mailo, Third Platoon.” The envelope which Harriman fondly and carefully opened was different from the other letters in the package. On it the stamp had been glued at an angle which, to many young men and women, meant “I love you.” The stationery was lavender and a reminiscent odor of sachet was on it. The writing was cramped and affectedly schoolgirlish. Harriman unfolded the sheet of lavender paper. “Dear Carl,” it began. “You poor dear boy!! How you must be suffering over there in those horrid trenches. And how BRAVE of you to be so joking about it. But WE know how badly the conditions really are. The papers keep reporting the FRIGHTFULNESS of those Huns, and I pray each night that you won’t be taken prisoner and be treated as some of our poor boys have been treated. The other day Mrs. Wilwerscheid told mama the most AWFUL story of what the Huns were doing to our prisoner boys. Oh, Carl, it was so awful that I cannot repeat it. I ought not to even THINK of it. But we know that our Carl is too brave to let HIMSELF be taken prisoner.