aw to the left a line of
slow-crawling tanks. They were about as long as Ford cars and as tall
as a man. They were the French "baby tanks" coming up to help our boys
clean out the machine-gun nests. It was perfectly fascinating and
almost uncanny to watch tanks in action. There was no visible sign of
life or power, nor any seeming direction to their motion. They crawled
stealthily along, bowling over bushes or small trees or flattening out
wire entanglements. Steep banks or deep gulleys were taken or crossed
with equal ease. As a tank would creep up the side of a ridge it
seemed to poise momentarily on the crest, the front part extending out
into space until the center of gravity was passed, when the whole tank
plunged down headlong. We instinctively held our breath until we saw
it crawling away on the opposite side.

The tanks parked behind a hill. We worked our way through the
intervening valley, up the hill past the tank position, and on toward
the battle-line, giving out our supplies to all we met or passed.
Before we had finished, a Boche plane flew overhead, took a photo of
the tank position, and got away to the German lines before our
aviators could give chase. We were warned to retreat to a safe
position because the German guns would shell this area as soon as the
returning scout brought in news of the location of the tanks. Our
first concern, however, was the service we might be able to render the
boys. Personal safety was a secondary matter, especially since death
lurked everywhere. So we continued across a shell-torn slope, toward
the enemy line, going from shell-hole to shell-hole and giving a word
of good cheer, a bit of chocolate, and some smokes to the boys who had
taken temporary refuge in these ready-made "dug-ins" (a shallow
protection).

Having ministered to the wants of our own boys, we felt the brave
French pilots and gunners of these tanks were also deserving and as
we approached each tank on our return trip a small iron door in front
of the pilot opened, and the courteous appreciation, of which the
French are masters, told us that our remembrance of them had been
wisely chosen. Fritz was unintentionally good to us and waited until
we had finished our task in that sector and retraced our steps across
the valley before he began to shell it. By that time the wounded had
also been cared for and removed and the tank position changed. For
once Heinie's shells were wasted.

For ten wonderful days my