In the meantime, the main part of the parade was surging up Market. The Signal Corps of Camp Fremont marched with their squadron of trained homing pigeons. Then a float drawn by Esquimeaux dogs wearing special harnesses. Upon it was a dachshund fitted with a tiny helmet who was barking incessantly at a goat that had been tethered next to it, and written in festive yarn was the phrase “Get the Kaiser’s Goat.” Then doughboys from Camp Kearney in their field uniforms performed a relay race with hand grenades. This made the crowds slightly nervous, worried about their boys, proud of them, and anxious to kill things themselves. Then: the tank division.

No civilian had seen a tank. For years, no one had been allowed to film a tank. The device hadn’t even had a name, until it was decided that, to confuse the enemy, “tank” could describe a device to carry water. Recently, their existence had been revealed, but they were more discussed than understood.

There were six of them, in rows of two, and the Chronicle photographer scurried up a lamppost so Miss Kathryne Booth, retired from the float where she had been Liberty Leading the People, could hold aloft the Stars and Stripes. The next day’s front page: from the gutter to the margin, the fresh face of democracy, and behind her the line of six tanks followed by its proud (and burdened) marine guard.

The tanks were gray and sturdy and slow as elephants, each with gigantic pairs of all-around tracks that flanked sheltered cabins which bulged with huge brow ridges, like brooding insect gods. Their sides were walls of metal and rivets interrupted by machine-gun housings that swept back and forth like inquisitive and deadly antennae.

It was like watching the winning horses be led to the starting gate. There were no longer questions about supporting the war, for not only was it justified, but the tanks were the means of ending it. More Liberty Loans were sold when they passed than with the transit of any other floats; fitting, for the parade was now winding down.

Just as the tanks were passing, Lee left the theater, for A Dog’s Life had ended. He was feeling jaunty among the rush of fellow patrons. The theater had filled to capacity just before the Chaplin had started. There was a good deal of laughter now, even when they were exiting, and a man with a thick mustache and a full belly was saying to his friend, “That scene with the dog’s tail beating the bass drum!” His friend, a tall drink of water, laughed and replied, “And what about when he had knocked the crook unconscious and was pretending to be his hands?”

“And the dog’s tail and the bass drum,” his friend said.