Coming from the trenches at night, we waited in a little hamlet about a kilometer in the rear for our automobiles. About 1,000 soldiers were there, waiting to return to the trenches in the morning. They completely surrounded us, singling me out for observation on account of my khaki clothes. I heard one ask our Captain about me. The Captain replied that I was a correspondent of The New York Times. Many had never seen an American before. I was conscious that I was an object of intense curiosity.
I saw one little chap pushing through the crowd. He stood before me and thrust out his hand. "Hello!" he said. I thought his "Hello!" might be French quite as easily as American, so I merely returned his handshake. He grinned, and then said in perfectly good "American": "You forget me, huh?" I admitted my shortcoming in memory; but his beard was very thick and stubby and his uniform was very dirty. I complimented his linguistic ability. He waved his arms, saying: "Huh, didn't I live eight years in little old New York?" Then he came still nearer, saying: "You don't remember me, and I have served you many a cocktail. I don't know your name; but I am sure."
After something like a jar I gasped out, "Where?"
"Five years ago, at Mouquin's," he replied, and then I did remember him, and while the others stood about marveling at their "educated" comrade who could actually converse with the American, we talked about many of the old newspaper crowd in New York who frequented that restaurant. He had sailed on Aug. 4 to rejoin his regiment.
The automobiles arrived, and I climbed aboard. He reached up his hand.
"Tell those folks back in America that we are all doing fine," he said. Then his voice sank to an impressive whisper: "And take it from me, you can say we are giving the Germans hell now."
As our automobile jerked suddenly away into the night I could hear my ex-waiter excitedly introducing American journalism, particularly The New York Times, to his regiment on the battlefield.
WYTHE WILLIAMS.