Returning to the front I was sent as a reinforcement to the 163rd who had just come from Verdun, where they had one battalion captured by the enemy.

After a few days rest while they were getting reinforcements and new clothing and equipment we were sent up to the front where with the exception of ten days when we went to Laveline to be refitted again (but two men left in my squad). My company, the 7th, were in the first and second line trenches for seven continuous months.

In the 163rd I saw a French regiment at its best. The Legion is composed of men from all countries. The 170th are from many French regiments and sections. The 163rd all came from southern France. They saw alike, understood one another and worked together. Kind and considerate, they were a band of ideal brothers. They took pleasure in having an American feel at home. They made sure that he got his share of clothing, rations and duty. He, noticing those little courtesies, in his appreciation, became a better soldier.

What I liked about this regiment was the supreme contempt the officers had for the Boches—and could not but admire how easy they slipped things over on Fritz.

Owing to the even character of the men, it was not necessary to have as strict discipline as in the Legion. Here the soldiers were more content—more companionable—were all veterans—many wounded bad enough so they could not have remained in a regiment of attack,—yet steady and dependable, and almost invaluable, where the enemy’s trenches were about thirty yards away,—and the two forces were in constant touch with each other.

In the winter of 1916-17 weakened by rheumatism, after fighting in three active first line regiments, I was finally sent to the 92nd Territorials, a working regiment, then in a near-by sector.

These grand-dads, from forty to fifty-five years of age, the debris of “Papa” Joffre’s old army, were all physically unfit—yet, not old enough to die. The object in holding them together was to have a reserve—in order to use what few ounces of strength they still had.

Officers and doctors were considerate and very kind. But, even that could not keep a number of the men from caving in as Nature’s limit was reached.

One night at Bussang, after unloading coal in a snowstorm, my wet cotton gloves were as stiff with frost as were my knees with rheumatism. Quite fed up, I went to the doctor, determined to thrash the matter out with him. “Yes,” he responded, “I know you are not in condition, but, we are hard pressed now. We must use every ounce of energy we have.” I quit knocking, stuck it out a few days longer, then went to pieces.

Such is soldier life. He starts out strong and full of pep, fit to serve in the Foreign Legion, the best in France. Then in the 170th, graded the fourth. Then to the 163rd, a good trench regiment. Then to the 92nd Territorials, a working regiment. Then to hospital—transferred back to the Legion—to be invalided home.