front was in the autumn of 1917.  The south face of the Alps often is green and beautiful, but generally the northern faces of those mountains are bleak and rugged and steep.  The battle line ran a zig-zag course through the mountains, now meeting in gulches, now scurrying away up to mesas, again climbing to the top of the barren heights.  We stood one sunny day on a quiet sector of the Pasubio.  We were with the Liguria brigade, the 157-158th infantry.  Through a peep-hole in the trench we looked across a gulch to another mountainside and saw there the Austrian trenches, not 200 yards away.  Before them lay the ugly scar of brown rusted barbed wire, and just below the wire, sprawled out on the white limestone of the steep mountainside, lay fifty dead Italian soldiers who had vainly charged into the machine guns up that formidable slope.  They had lain there for weeks.  It was the grisliest sight we had seen during our adventures.

Medill and Henry went to another lookout, leaving me with the Italian soldiers in the trench.  Their luncheon came up, a fine rich soup, with bread cubes in it, some potatoes and vegetables.  It looked palatable and was good.  There was enough, but not plenty.  As we sat in the trench waiting for Henry and Medill, one of the heroes beside me, after thinking it all out carefully, burst forth with this: 

“I livea in Pittsburgh.”

It was plain to his comrades that he had put his meaning through to me.  They clearly were impressed by his prowess.  This cheered him up.  He went on to further linguistic feats.

“Is, I live-a there five year.”

That also got over and his comrades realized that he was a polyglot.  Then in a joyous spirit of over-confidence, he waved the oriflamme of speech in our faces.

“Is, my papa he live-a in Brooklyn.  He keepa da butcha shop and is maka da roast bif.  Is, my papa’s brodder he live-a in Brooklyn too.  He keepa da saloon and is maka da jag!” Then we shook hands as fellow Americans.

In another hour we had wormed our way through the tunnels to the other side of the peak, and had scrambled down the mountainside to the general headquarters.  Never since Hannibal’s day were more interesting brigade headquarters established.  They were niched into the mountain side about 4,000 feet above a gorge below.  The sleeping quarters and offices were half tunnelled into the hillside.  The diningroom was mounted on a platform overlooking the gorge below.  Across the gorge a quarter of a mile away an aerial tram ran.  That morning two airplanes—­an Italian plane and an Austrian—­met out by the tram wire in a battle.  It could be seen as easily from the diningroom platform as if it had been half down the block; yet the airmen were 4,000 feet in the air.  We had luncheon at the brigade headquarters, and it was made a gala occasion.  Some one had brought in an Austrian cow which was brigade property and we had real cream.  Otherwise it was a war