pposite
types of men became our best scouts. There were two without equal:
one, city-bred, a college graduate; the other a "bushie," writing his
name with difficulty.

Ray Wilson was a nervous, highly strung sort of fellow, almost a girl
in his sensitiveness. In fact, at the first there were several who
called him Rachel, but they soon dropped it, for he was a lovable chap,
and disarmed his enemies with his good nature. He had taken his arts
course, but was studying music when he enlisted, and he must have been
the true artist, for though the boys were prejudiced against the
mandolin as being a _sissy_ instrument, when he played they would sit
around in silence for hours. What makes real friendship between men?
You may know and like and respect a fellow for years, and that is as
far as it goes, when, suddenly, one day something happens--a curtain is
pulled aside and you go "ben" [2] with him for a second--afterward you
are "friends," before you were merely friendly acquaintances.

Ray and I became friends in this wise. We were out together scouting
preparatory to a raid, and were seeking a supposed new "listening post"
of the enemy. There had been a very heavy bombardment of the German
trenches all day, and it was only held up for three-quarters of an hour
to let us do our job. The new-stale earth turned up by the shells
extended fifty yards in No Man's Land. (Only earth that has been blown
on by the wind is fresh "over there." Don't, if you have a weak
stomach, ever turn up any earth; though there may not be rotting flesh,
other gases are imprisoned in the soil.) This night the wind was
strong, and the smell of warm blood mingled with the phosphorous odor
of high explosive, and there was that other sweet-sticky-sickly smell
that is the strongest scent of a recent battle-field. It was a vile,
unwholesome job, and we were glad that our time was limited to
three-quarters of an hour, when our artillery would re-open fire. I
got a fearful start on looking at my companion's face in the light of a
white star-shell; it might have belonged to one of the corpses lying
near, with the lips drawn back, the eyes fixed, and the complexion
ghastly. He replied to my signal that he was all right, but a nasty
suspicion crept into my mind--his teeth had chattered so much as to
make him unable to answer a question of mine just before we left the
trench, but one took no notice of a thing like that, for stage fright
was common