here," a major said. "How about it, Williams?
Where are all the official photographers?"
"I saw Billy Jones the other day at the base. Next time I run into him I'll put him on to you fellows."
“Thanks awfully, but they say Billy's a reckless one. Maybe he won't last."
"You fellows deserve pictures. Never mind. That's enough of this ghastly film. We're off to see what Smith's at."
And Smith, found in an old stable crowded with steel cylinders like oxygen tanks, proved to be another boy of college age and appearance. The buttons of his uniform were black, and his fingers were stained.
“It's the gas," he said.
Through the open doorway we saw a sergeant drilling a squad in a field.
“Those chaps are at gas school," he said.
"Care to see my curriculum?"
One cause of the remarkable efficiency at the British front was constantly impressed upon us. When the men weren't fighting they were at school. Gas school! We wondered exactly what that could be. So we strolled into the field and stretched ourselves in the pleasant grass like a party lounging on the outskirts of a ball game.
A line of soldiers, with full equipment, faced
