But seeing them now–not safe at home, hanging loose off a line of recruits in front of the beer hall–their beauty was made evident. Gray uniforms, gray helmets, gray mud, gray skies, gray mist, and gray men, moved as ghosts down the road as gray rain filled shell craters with gray water. Compared to the French in their red pants and blue jackets, we were invisible. Even Tommy made sure to cover their khakis with mud as soon as possible, but we came off the assembly line perfectly cast for this new barbarism.