bugles an' battles war's mostly mud an' manure."
"Yep, Sherman was away off," mumbled a lad with two mufflers around his long neck and shell-rim spectacles slipping down a pathetic, long, blue nose. "Hell-fire's a lot more companionable than mud. Wish we had a box full of it now instead of these measly twigs that burn like Boche cigars."
I was relieved from the contemplation of this dreary trio when a colonel of artillery stopped his splashing car and offered me a lift. Ah, here was a true officer and a gentleman! Colonel Weyrauch, of the 146th Artillery, he turned out to be, on his way forward to inspect his beloved guns. We begin to find them above Nantillois, near Madeleine Farm, the scene of hot fighting a few hours earlier. French guns they were, served by Americans. The colonel patted their long, beautiful necks and the strong, straddling legs which bit into the earth ten or fifteen feet behind the breach. He was like a horse-fancier making the rounds of his stable.
Under their canopies of camouflaging the guns were talking loudly—talking earnestly to the Boche up on the Meuse. No answer yet from Fritz, for which we were thankful, for the road was jammed with traffic and we had to halt every two or three minutes.
The roadside was cluttered up with disem-
