worse things. Wait until you have seen Gerbéviller."
His eyes held a disturbing promise.
In our hotel, surrounded by shattered buildings, we dined comfortably that night. Other officers came to our table from time to time with the gossip of the sector. One of them, a charming young fellow, a captain in the machine gun service, was particularly pleased to find an American, because he had heard a good story that day about one of my countrymen in the Foreign Legion. Over coffee he told it with much joy.
"You know," he said, " that the soldiers have been in the habit of making finger rings out of the aluminum they gather from shells of the Bosches. They send them to Paris, where they are sold, and lots, I daresay, have found their way to America."
I told him that as far back as a year ago I had seen such rings in New York.
"Then you will understand," he went on," how eager the soldiers are to get this material, which in good condition isn't very plentiful. They are quite jealous about it. The other night, it seems, this American in the Foreign Legion was on solitary in a listening post between the lines. Those places are never very comfortable, as you may learn for yourself some day. The Bosches
