t see anything worse at the San
Francisco earthquake,'" I replied.

"Well, I didn't, for I wasn't there. I just gave them guys what they
was lookin' for in all its horrible details, didn't I? Ain't they
satisfied? Well, so am I, bo."

This story has a meaning all its own in addition to the fact that it
produced one of the bright spots in my experiences in France. That
eloquent secretary represents a type who will tell the public about
anything he thinks it wants to know about the "horrible details" of war
in France, and facts do not baffle his inventive genius.

One characteristic of the American soldier in France is his absolute
fearlessness about dangers. He doesn't know how to be afraid. He
wants to see all that is going on. The French tap their heads and say
he is crazy, a gesture they have learned from America. And they have
reason to think so. When the "alert" blows for an air-raid the French
and English have learned to respect it. Not so the American soldier.

"Think I'm comin' clear across that darned ocean to see something, and
then duck down into some blamed old cellar or cave and not see anything
that's goin' on! Not on your life. None o' that for muh! I'm going
to get right out on the street where I can see the whole darned show!"

And that's just what he does. I've been in some twenty-five or thirty
air-raids in four or five cities of France, and I have never yet seen
many Americans who took to the "abris." They all want to see what's
going on, and so they hunt the widest street, and the corner at that,
to watch the air-raids.

One night during a heavy raid in Paris, when the French were safely
hidden in the "abris," because they had sense enough to protect
themselves, I saw about twenty sober but hilarious American soldiers
marching down the middle of the boulevard, arm in arm, singing "Sweet
Adelaide" at the top of their voices, while the bombs were dropping all
over Paris, and a continuous barrage from the anti-aircraft guns was
cannonading until it sounded like a great front-line battle.

That night I happened to be watching the raid myself from a convenient
street-corner. Unconsciously I stood up against a street-lamp with a
shade over me, made of tin about the size of a soldier's steel helmet.
Along came a French street-walker, looked at me standing there under
that tiny canopy, and with a laugh said as she swiftly passed me,
"C'est un abri, monsieur?" looking up. The air-raid