At last, seven or eight miles in the forest, we came upon the first aid post, a quarter of a mile from the opposite edge of the wood and but half a mile from the front line trenches of Verdun The first aid post there was a cellar, half excavated, and half covered with earth, and roofed with iron rails, logs and sandbags.  The usual French doctors, stretcher bearers and American Ambulance men were there.  And there was the little cemetery, always found at a first aid post where those are buried who die on the stretchers or in the dugout.  It was lovingly adorned by the French with the tri-colour of France, with bronze wreaths, with woodland flowers, and was altogether bright and beautiful in the bare woods.  They showed us a shell by the cave—­a gas shell that had come over during the morning and had hit on the oblique and had not exploded.  It was gently leaking chlorine gas, which we sniffed—­but gingerly.  Other shells were popping into the place and fairly near us with some regularity and enthusiasm, and it seemed to Henry and me that we had no desire to stare grim war’s wrinkled front out of countenance, and we hoped that the Major and Mr. Norton were nearly ready to go back.  But we heard this: 

From the Major:  “How far forward can we go toward Hill 304; we would like to see it, but have no desire to go further than you care to have us.”

And from the French lieutenant in charge:  “Go to Berlin if you want to!”

It occurred to Henry and me, considering our feelings, that the Major’s nonchalant use of that “we” was without the consent of the governed.  But when he started forward we followed.  Our moral cowardice overwhelmed our physical cowardice, and our legs tracked ahead while our hearts tracked back.  The Major swung along the road at a fast clip; Mr. Norton went with him.  For short-geared men we followed as fast as we could, but it was at a respectful distance.  Nearer and nearer we came to the open field, and by the same token, quicker and nearer and hotter came the German shells.  We were continually on the duck.  Our progress had an accordion rhythm that made distance come slow.  We came to a dead mule in the road.  He had been bombed recently, and was not ready for visitors.  Now a mule is not nature’s masterpiece at his best; but in the transition state between a mule and hamburger, a mule leaves much to be desired.  As we passed the forward reaches of the mule, Henry began his kidding.  He always begins to guy a situation under emotion.  “Bill,” he cried, “if we die we’ll at least save our nice new hundred dollar uniforms down there in Paris!” And from me he got this:  “And say, Henry—­if we die we won’t have to face our wives and tell ’em we paid that much for a two-piece suit!  There’s that comfort in sudden death!”