"Y. M. C. A." we shot back as quick as lightning, for we had learned
that it doesn't pay to waste time in answering a sentinel's challenge
down within sound of the German guns.

"Pass on, friends," was the grinning reply. That rascal of a sentry
had caught us unawares, lost in the afterglow, and he was tickled over
having startled us into astonishment.

But even though he did give us a scare, I am sure that the picture of
him standing there in the middle of that French road, with his gun
raised against the afterglow, will be one of the outstanding
silhouettes of the memories of France.

Then there was the old Scotch dominie down at Château-Thierry, with the
marines. The boys called him "Doc," and loved him, for he had been
with them for eight months.

One night, in the midst of the hottest fighting in June, the old
secretary thought he would go out in the night and see how the boys
were getting along. He walked cautiously along the edge of the woods
when suddenly the word "Halt!" shot out in low but distinct tones.

"Who goes there?"

"A friend," the secretary replied.

"Oh, it's you, is it, Doc? Gee, I'm glad to see you! This is a darned
weird place to-night. Every time the wind blows I think it's a Boche."