That army of American men knew that the
job on which they were entering was not child's play. They knew that
democracy depended upon what they did in that line. They knew that
many of them would never come back. They knew that at last the real
thing was facing them. They were not like dumb, driven beasts. They
were men. They were American men. They were thinking men. They were
silent men. They were brave men.
They were marching to their place in history unafraid, and unflinching,
but thoughtful and silent.
Another Silhouette of Silence. It was after midnight on the Toul line.
We were driving back from the front. The earth was covered with a
blanket of snow. Everything was white. We were moving cautiously
because with the snow over everything it was hard to tell where the icy
road left off and the ditches began; and those ditches were four feet
deep, and a big truck is hard to get out of a hole. Then there were no
lights, for we were too near the Boche batteries.
"Halt!" rang out suddenly in the night, and a sentry stepped into the
middle of the road.
I got down to see what he wanted.
"There are fifty truck-loads of soldiers going into the trenches
to-night, and they are coming this way. Drive carefully, for it is
slippery."
In a few moments we came to the first truck filled with soldiers, and
passed it.
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