"'Hello, Herman, where did that last shell drop?'
"Second operator replied, 'It killed two men in a ration party in a communicating trench and spilt all the soup. No hot food for you to-night, Rudolph.'
"Herman replying: 'That's all right. We have got some beer here.'
"Then there was a confusion of sounds and a German was heard talking to some one in his dugout. He said:
"'Hurry, here comes the lieutenant! Hide the can!'
"That's the way it goes," added the Major, "but if we heard that the society editor of the Fliegende Blaetter and half a dozen pencil strafers were touring the German front line, we'd send 'em over something that would start 'em humming a hymn of hate. If they knew I was joy riding a party of correspondents around the diggin's to-night, they might give you something to write about and cost me a platoon or two. You're not worth it. Come on."
Our party now numbered nine and we pushed off, stumbling through uneven lanes in the centre of dimly lit ruins. According to orders, we carried gas masks in a handy position.
This sector had a nasty reputation when it comes to that sample of Teutonic culture. Fritz's poison shells dropped almost noiselessly and, without a report, broke open, liberating to enormous expansion the inclosed gases. These spread in all directions, and, owing to the lowness and dampness of the terrain, the poison clouds were imperceptible both to sight or smell. They clung close to the ground to claim unsuspecting victims.
"How are we to know if we are breathing gas or not?" asked the Philadelphia correspondent, Mr. Henri Bazin.
"That's just what you don't know," replied the Major.