patrol which had just been mowed down outside the city. After
taking a shot at an aeroplane buzzing away at a tremendous
distance overhead, they were off again on another scouting trip.

I got separated from my party and was making my way alone
when a sharp "Hello!" ringing up the street, startled me. I turned to
see, not one of the photographers, but a fully-armed, though
somewhat diminutive, soldier in Belgian uniform waving his hand
at me.

"Hello!" he shouted; "are you an American?"

I could hardly believe my eyes or my ears, but managed to shout
back, "Yes, yes, I'm an American. Are you?" I asked dubiously.

"You betcha I'm a 'Merican," he replied, coming quickly up to me. It
was my turn again.

"What are you doing down here--fighting?" I put in fatuously.

"What the hell you think I'm doing?" he rejoined.

I now felt quite sure that he was an American. Further offerings of
similar "language of small variety but great strength" testified to his
sojourn in the States.

"You betcha I'm a 'Merican," he reiterated, "though I was over
there but two years. My name is August Bidden. I worked in a
lumber-mill in Wagner, Wisconsin. Came back here to visit my
family. The war broke out. I was a Reservist and joined my