Then Pickford made a feature called The Little American. She played a victim of German brutalities. Her films, she declared, would now reflect the new American spirit of going Over the Top. It was a shock, because prior to this, pictures had mostly ignored the war. And yet, even before The Little American was released, it was acclaimed as an advance of the motion-picture art form. The New Republic explained: “She of the anodyne smile-and-curls, she of the banal feisty determination, she of the sleek rags-to-riches vehicles as mass-produced as any by Henry Ford, is condemned by us no longer. To repudiate this girl in haste is high treason to the national heart. She, sui generis, has revealed the new character of the motion picture actor: that of patriot.”

Latin! The clincher of having been found worthy by The New Republic. So there she sat atop the gallery of immortals, place as assured as if she were Aphrodite and Hera and Artemis rolled into one. Chaplin did not stand a chance against her. In his room at the Athletic Club, he rubbed the bridge of his nose. The electric light by his bed made a mysterious hissing sound, as if it were expelling gas.

He envisioned his dogs in army fatigues. English bulldogs and French poodles fighting German dachshunds. The Little Fellow leading a charge with American mongrels in tow. It shimmered with an inherent ridiculousness. Throwing a pineapple grenade only to have a helpful dog catch and return it. Throwing it again and again, and seeing it return, bellowing smoke, with the anticipation each time of its explosion. There were dogs in combat—he’d seen pictures of them. One bulldog had been gassed, and English schoolchildren had taken up a collection, and now he had his own gas mask. Chaplin imagined the Tramp putting on his gas mask, and taking his dog, also in a gas mask, on a walk. Behaving as if it’s a day in the park even through sniper fire and exploding shells. Shushing the battlefield so the dog could concentrate to do his business.

Several of his dogs in gas masks, sworn enemies from either side, trying to fight over a soup bone. Unable to get a grip on it, and it rolls along No Man’s Land, coming to a halt among a larger pile of soup bones, which leads to an even larger pile of bones, some of which still wear uniforms. Then the dogs go mad with delight—enough to eat for a lifetime! The climax: racing into enemy headquarters to see who is in charge and finding— more dogs.