The real, well-made, manicured trench is from two and a half to three feet wide and eight or ten feet deep. The narrower the trench, the better. It gives the least space for German shells to drop in and blow occupants out. The more crooked the trench the better. The enemy has smaller chance to make an enfilading (raking lengthwise) fire. Here only are narrowness and crookedness virtues.

Each trench is embellished with channels, mines, saps, tunnels, subterranean passages, and bomb proof structures of various sorts. Out in front, are from ten to fifty yards of barbed wire entanglements, through which a Jack rabbit could not go without getting hung up. The German has about the same arrangement on his side. That piece of open ground between the German wire and the French wire is known as “No-Man’s-Land.” In the night, patrols of men, German and French, promenade this strip, to guard against surprise attacks, and make observations of the enemy.

Patrols often meet in conflict. Some never come back. Others, wounded, must lie in shell holes, awaiting an opportunity to return. At the sign of an attack, darkness is lighted by star shells. It is then necessary for the patrol to get back to the wire-cut lane, or tunneled hole under the wires where they went out, their only refuge and chance for safety.

Back of the first line trench is the second, back of that a third. In some places, there are a dozen lines of trenches, different distances apart, varying with local conditions. From the rear, at right angles, interweaving like meshes of a net, are the communication and auxiliary branches through which men bring up supplies, provisions and ammunition.

In the front line trenches, in addition to the infantry’s rifles and grenades, are machine guns and trench mortars. Around the second line, the 75’s and field artillery. About the third line, with the reserves, stand heavy artillery. So, when one side attacks the other, they must cross that open “No-Man’s-Land,” go through these barbed wire entanglements, meet the rifle fire and grenades of the infantry, and those three rows of artillery. You can readily see why the line remains stationary along the front for so long, also how, when it has been broken or bent, there has been such great loss of life.

It was in a bomb proof shelter of a first line trench, in the middle of the night, at Sillery-Sur-Marne, that I met the “American,” whose real name was Dubois. I did not then understand French and had been placed on guard by a French corporal who could not speak English. He pointed to the hole, then at the Boche trench opposite, and walked away. The post was well protected by sandbags and solid timbers overhead, with an observation hole, one inch deep by three inches wide, cut into armor plate, in front. The usual, intermittent warfare was in progress, and it suddenly developed into a battle. The post was out on an angle. Rifle clashes were all about. No one was near in the open trench. So, getting uneasy, I became afraid I was cut off or left behind.

I started toward the trench just as a big shell burst there. I ducked back, concluded the sheltered post was better than the open trench, then glued my eye on the 1 × 3 observation hole. Yes, no doubt, the Germans were advancing in mass formation. I could see, through the little hole, against the sky line, the bayonets on their guns. A noise near my ear compelled my attention. Then I felt and saw better. Those bayonets were hairs, sticking straight out from a big, fat, impudent rat, who sniffed along and looked through the hole squarely into my eye. I spat at the rat, which retreated a few inches, then stopped to await developments. This nerve angered me and I started to go outside to throw a rock at the rodent, when a voice behind said in English,—“Damn it, that cussed sergeant has plugged it up.”

From the shelter I could see a nondescript figure clad in an old, abbreviated bath-robe, tassels hanging down in front, shoes unlaced, rifle in hand, ruefully gazing at a new stack of sandbags, which blocked a small exit into “No-Man’s-Land.” He might have been a soldier but he did not look it. He might have been French, but America was stamped all over that free-moving, powerful figure, in his quick acting, decisive manner and set jaws, square-cut, like a paving block.

Thus, we two Americans, who had arrived from different directions, each animated by the same idea, sat down at the jumping off place amid those unnatural surroundings and got acquainted.

It was bizarre. The devilishness, the beauty, alternately, shocked the feelings or soothed the senses. Darkness and grotesque shadows, intermingled with colored illumination, scattering streams of golden hail, followed by red flame and acolytes, while sharp, white streaks of cannon fire winked, blinked, and were lost in the never-ending din. Between the occasional roll of musketry and the rat-rat-tat-tat of machine guns, we watched the pyrotechnic display and talked.

Yes, he was an American, and had been ten months without a furlough. He had been out in front sniping all the afternoon. That cheapskate sergeant, who is always nosing around, must have missed him and closed up the outlet.

“Yes,” he soliloquized, “the world is not fit to live in any more. The Kaiser has mobilized God Almighty. The Crown Prince said he could bring the Devil from hell with his brave German band. The Mexicans broke up my business and destroyed my happy home. Here in France, they made me take off my good clothes and don these glad rags. This bath robe is all I have left of my ancient grandeur—and there is not much of it, but it is all wool and a yard wide—not as long as it used to be, but it is warm. I know it looks like hell, but it is a sort of comfort to me, and is associated with happier days.

“Yes,” he ruminated, ”if I am not careful I won’t have enough left to make a pocket handkerchief. Here I have taken five or six pair of Russian socks from it, and bandaged up Pierre’s wound, and I only have enough for four more pairs of socks after I have taken some pieces to clean my rifle with.”

He was a man of unusual history, even for the Legion. Some months previous, seeing an Alsatian officer strike a small man, the American stepped up and said: “Why don’t you take a man your own size?” For answer the officer pulled a revolver and thrust it at his breast. Dubois, gazing down through the eyes of the officer, clear into his heart, said: “Shoot, damn you, shoot. You dare not; you have not got the nerve!”

He was an expert gymnast. He played the piano, accompanying the singers at concerts, during repose. When encored, he came back with a song in French. In conquered Alsace, he spoke German with the natives.

On the day we made the 48-kilometer march to the summit of Ballon d’Alsace and back, while the company was resting Dubois was striding up and down, knapsack on back, hands in pockets. I said: “What are you doing? Can’t you sit down and rest?”

“Oh,” he replied, “I was telling the lieutenant that instead of poking along with these short, fiddling steps, the men should march out like this,—like we do in America!” It is a fact that the French take the longest strides, and are the best marchers in the world!