His earliest films had taken a week, maybe two, and then they had taken a month. Camouflage was taking longer, June into July, and then August. He imagined soldiers attempting to storm a building. He imagined an enemy inside, or perhaps Edna was in there, a nurse waiting to be rescued. Setting the Little Fellow the job of entering, he imagined a perfect forward flip, ending with his skull pressed against the barrel of a tank gun. Hands up! Immediate surrender on the Tramp’s part.

Every day’s shooting that Chaplin threw out caused his crew to wonder whether their boss had finally lost his mind. And every day that he kept— showing smoke bombs exploding, trench foot, boredom, filth; showing the German infantry excited and pleased when the Little Fellow spanked one of their officers; showing the men holding track races between competing sets of body lice—made them wonder whether they were all going to be arrested.

“Was that good? Did it work?” Chaplin asked. The response was muted: everyone was still worried that this picture would never see the light of day.

But Chaplin was not asking them alone. He was also asking the opinion of a man who had taken to walking around the studio and observing how they worked. This man nodded, absently. No one on staff recognized him, for he did not work in Hollywood. It was Secretary McAdoo, who was taking an extended look at the filmmaking process before he returned to Washington.

The summer of 1918 was unusually warm in Los Angeles, with a swampy oppressiveness no one could remember from previous years. Actors did not want to work, afternoon breaks lasted hours, scenarios were rewritten for all the scenes to occur at dawn and dusk. Production slowed, cafés flourished, there was much praise for ambitious creations such as tequila mixed with orange syrup, lime, shaved ice, and gossip. For the first time, local newspapers provided commentary on actors’ comings and goings. In August, the Los Angeles Examiner reported the following:

CHAPLIN MARRIAGE RUMOR IS DENIED

Despite rumors that will not die down to the effect that Mildred Harris, the dainty screen favorite, has won the heart of Charlie Chaplin and soon is to be his bride, the petite actress denied last night the last half of the double-barrelled allegation.

“No, Mr. Chaplin and I are not engaged,” Miss Harris said last night when she returned to her quarters in the Wilshire Apartments after an evening at his studio. “We’re just very dear friends.”