"You betcha they're down there," was his disconcerting reply. "You
can see their green-gray uniforms. I counted sixteen or seventeen
of them."

The thought of that sixteen-to-one shot made my cheeks take on
the color of the German uniforms. The naked truth was my last
resort. It was the only thing that could prevent my zealous friend
from dragging me forcibly down to the brookside. He may have
heard the chattering of my teeth. At any rate he looked up and
exclaimed, "What's the matter? You 'fraid?"

I replied without any hesitation, "You betcha."

The happy arrival of the photographer at this juncture, however,
redeemed my fallen reputation; for a soldier is always peculiarly
amenable to the charms of the camera and is even willing to quit
fighting to get his picture taken.

This photograph happens to hit off our little episode exactly. It
shows Ridden serene, smiling, confident, and my sort of evasive
hangdog look as though, in popular parlance, I had just "got one
put over me."

Then, while seated on a battered wall, Ridden poured out his story
of the last two months of hardships and horrors. It was the single
individual's share in the terrific gruelling that the Belgian army had
received while it was beaten back from the eastern frontier to its
stand on the river Scheldt. Always being promised aid by the Allies
if they would hold out just a little longer, they were led again and
again frantically to pit their puny strength against the overwhelming