Chaplin later referred to the summer of 1918 as the happiest days of his life (he also nominated earlier days sometimes). He returned to the studio from the Liberty Loan parade fired up to be a soldier onscreen. He had, on the train ride from San Francisco to Los Angeles, sketched out a classic three-act story, which surprised him. Normally, he improvised, but for this film—he called it Camouflage—he wanted to know in advance what the scenario would be. It was like fulfilling a promise to the young doughboy he’d seen in San Francisco, the one looking fearfully onto the stage while Chaplin thrashed around, doing the Inebriate routine.

The ideas seemed to flow from one to another. In the first act, the Little Fellow was a henpecked husband, dodging plates, drinking to forget he’d married a shrew, and excited to get his draft notice. He imagined the dance of joy he would do upon receiving his registration, how counterintuitive the reaction, how great the laugh. Then he would have a physical (the business that would entail!). In the second act, he would be in the trenches of France. It would rain every moment, there would be gas masks used for Limburger cheese, a race Over the Top to retrieve a missing dog who has run off with the secret plans, a chase through No Man’s Land. He would meet and romance a French girl, alternately wooing her and hitting Germans over the head with a sausage. And in the final act, he would become a hero for some ridiculous reason, receiving medals at a state dinner—why not put the Little Fellow up against President Wilson? General Foch? Lloyd George? “Mistaken identity,” he wrote. “Little Fellow is a waiter at the banquet, he saves the day, and is elevated to hero. Those who would not even spit on him now must pay attention.” A Dog’s Life, everyone agreed, had been a pleasant half step up from the earlier comedies; Camouflage would fulfill his promise.

On the first day of shooting Camouflage, in June, he decided the whole thing was wrong. He walked into Wardrobe and asked Rhiannon to make him a tree costume. When she asked what sort of tree, he said, “A dead tree.” There was something about having fallen over at that beach party, a sort of accidental humor of which he wanted to take ownership. He was drawing sketches for Rhiannon when Syd looked over his shoulder.

“A tree costume?” asked Syd, cautiously. But he had larger battles: “Charlie, the second act—the trenches—you can’t do that, you know.”

“Why not?”

Syd looked as if he were being tied to a stake. “Laughing at soldiers?”

“It won’t be like that.”

“They can destroy you, you know. They can throw you right out of the country.”