Archangel. There the old general, who knew
of his wonderful fighting record, at last brought him on to the big
carpet. And the conversation was something like this:

"Graham, what is the matter? You have gone mad. I had the order to strip
you of your rank as an officer to see if that would sober you. But an
order from the King today by cable raises you one rank and now no one
but the King himself can change your rank. You deserved the promotion
but as you are going now it is no good to you. All I can do is to send
you back to England. But I do not mean it as a disgrace to you. I could
wish that you would give me your word that you would stop this madness
of yours." And the general looked kindly at Bob.

"Sir, you have been white with me. You have a right to know why I have
been misbehaving these last weeks. Here, sir, is a letter that came to
me the day I helped shoot up the cafe. In Belgium I married an American
Red Cross nurse. This is a picture of her and the new-born son come to
take the place of the grown-up son who fell mortally wounded in my arms
in France. To her and the baby I was bound to go if I had to drink
Russia dry of all the shipped-in Scotch and get myself reduced to the
ranks for insubordination and deviltry. Sir, I'm fed up on war. I thank
you for sending me back to England."

And Corporal Aldrich tells us that his old friend Bob Graham's present
address is First National Bank, Mobile, Alabama. His father, an
immigrant via Canada from old Dundee in Scotland, was elected governor
of Alabama on the dry issue. And officers and doughboys who knew the
wild Australian in North Russia know that his father might have had some
help if Bob were at home. With a genial word for every man, with a
tender heart that winced to see a child cry, with a nimble wit and a
brilliant daring, Lt. Bob Graham won a place in the hearts of Americans
that memory keeps warm.

And other British officers might be mentioned. There was, for example,
the grizzled naval officer, Commander Young, whose left sleeve had been
emptied at Zeebrugge, running our first armored train. We missed his
cheery countenance and courteous way of meeting American soldiers and
officers when he left us to return to England to take a seat in
Parliament which the Socialists had elected him to. We can see him again
in memory with his Polish gunners, his Russian Lewis gun men, standing
in his car surrounded by sand bags and barbed wire, knocking hot wood