Jimmy McGee and O. D., alias William G. Preston, made a great contrast as they plodded up and down hill along the tree-lined route over which passed in 1914 the stream of Paris taxicabs that brought French poilus to the heights of Verdun in time for Papa Joffre to stop the mad advance of the Prussians.

To the uninitiated, O. D., with his regulation pack and uniform equipment, would most likely have been immediately picked for the better soldier of the two. Jimmy McGee, habitué of the ragged battle-lines, and showing the wear and tear of fighting in everything about him, save his eyes, would have been dubbed a slouch. Which just goes to prove how different are the standards of measurements and worth that obtain at the front and in the S. O. S. Everything and everybody at the front is discounted until nothing but naked realities show. There is no chance for the superficial to flourish in the trenches and gun positions.

The pair had made about three kilometers when the sound of an approaching auto warned Jimmy McGee to take to the bushes. He lost no time in getting off the road. O. D. followed him with the statement that he believed it was a general’s limousine coming.

“Let it come—we don’t need to see it. Just sit down and look the other way. No use tryin’ to break our arms with that salutin’ stuff,” was the reply.

Both men sat down facing the woods. There was a sound of tires scraping the road, under pressure of quickly applied brakes. A door opened and slammed shut.

“What outfit are you men from?” The question was asked in a heavy, steady voice.

McGee and O. D. stood up and faced about to find themselves confronted by a major-general. They saluted. McGee spoke up.

“Twenty-sixth Division, sir.”

“What are you doing straggling along this road?” asked the general.

“Just returnin’ to our outfits from the hospital, sir,” lied McGee, with a feeling of glory.

“All right, men.”

The man with two stars on his shoulders stepped back into the warmth and luxury of his chugging motor and was off in a swirl of dust that nearly choked the two soldiers. McGee caught himself in the act of reaching for his old, battle-scarred gas-mask.

“Gee! he was a major-general,” declared O. D. in an awed voice; “did you see the two stars on his straps?” gasped the newcomer to Jimmy’s hunting-grounds.

“Oui, I noticed them all right, but they didn’t mean nothin’ to me. Generals don’t count much up there,” pointing in the general direction of the front. “We see plenty of other things that’s more interestin’. Course, you know, I generally salute officers from brigadier-generals up—that is, when they see me first; but you get used to havin’ ’em around you,” was Jimmy’s rejoinder.

“First time I ever had a general speak to me,” admitted O. D.

“Hell afire! I’ve had a dozen of ’em talk to me. Old General Edwards—he’s our boss, you know, and some boy at that, too—gave me an awful bawlin’-out one day on a hike when he caught me ridin’ on the rollin’ kitchen. Then another time he came into my dug-out one day and told me that the C. O. had said something good about a fool stunt I pulled one night when our lines went down and we kept up communication durin’ the bombardment and attack. Said he’d cite me, or somethin’ like that, but I never bothered to find out much about the business. Believe me, Edwards is the kind of man this army needs with a general’s stars on. He gets right in the old guerre. Some of ’em fight the war back in towns that the Boches have agreed not to shell. Say, by the way, ever see Pershing down in the S. O. S.?” asked Jimmy, as he got started under way again.

“Yes, once, when some French general gave him a medal or something. It was quite a ceremony,” replied his new companion.

“What did he look like? Kinda curious, as I ain’t seen him yet.”

“Do you mean that you are right at the front and never see the general?” The question was crowded with incredulity.

“Been on every front the Americans ever fought on, except the British lines, and never seen Pershing yet,” maintained McGee.

“Whee-ew! I thought that he was at the front all of the time leading the troops,” said O. D.

“No that Civil War stuff ain’t much in this guerre. Generals are like the flags and bands at the time we go over—they ain’t there, as a rule,” informed the man who knew about those things.

“Three kilometers to Issoncourt, according to that mile-stone,” said O. D. after they had hiked about four more kilos.

“Don’t believe those things. Next one will say seven kilometers to Issoncourt. That’s the way they build those things in this country. You ’ain’t arrived over here until you get there.”

“Looks like a nice town over yonder.” O. D. illustrated his words by pointing to the cluster of red roofs that glared in the afternoon sunlight.

“Looks—but that’s all. They’re all alike. At a distance you think these darn French villages are the cat’s knee-knuckles, so to speak, but when you get in them it’s the same old stuff—a bunch of old, moss-covered buildings standin’ around a church that’s big enough for an Irish parish in a big New York City precinct. A gang of cows in the street; an army of sheep and goats runnin’ in and out of front doors; a few hungry-looking dogs; beaucoup manure smoking in front of every door; some old men and women clatterin’ up and down in those wooden shoes—and you’ve got the best French village I ever stayed in. I’d rather pass the rest of my life in Yulee, Florida, than spend three months in one of these places durin’ peace-times. There’s a few trains pass through Yulee, and you get a newspaper once in a while; but in these French dumps the biggest excitement is that old village crier with his drum and line of talk that the inhabitants can’t compree, or a two-year-old newspaper posted up on the city hall, or Mairie, as they call it. I’m off ’em for life.”

It was only four o’clock when the pair reached Issoncourt, but already the shades of oncoming night had started to curtain the early autumn day with a sort of purple haze that soon became a regular night mist.

“Guess we’ll camp here for the night,” was Jimmy’s decision, as he noted the signs of night coming.

Issoncourt had been attached to the sides of the main Verdun road, and everything that the town owned was in plain view from the middle of the street, or Grande Rue, as the villagers called the roadway.

“Looks like there might be a chambre in that house. We’ll reconnoiter a bit for a place to cushay,” and Jimmy started toward what he thought was the best-looking house on the street.

Just as they reached the rough stone steps, after wading through the usual three feet of mud, a young colt came tearing through a barn door and nearly sent O. D. down for the count. Jimmy tapped at the door.

“Entrez,” called a woman’s voice.

McGee pushed the door in and both men stepped into the room. It was the same old stuff to Jimmy. The room was big and contained two beds that were built into the walls and canopied over with some kind of red curtain. A rickety table with a half-emptied bottle of vin rouge on it stood in the center of the room. There was the usual number of chickens passing in and out to the barn. Several cats lounged about the great open fireplace that was bare of fire, except for a few pieces of smoking things that looked like grape-vines. A dog got up somewhere in the darkness and shook himself back to life. The woman who had told them to enter was not in sight.

Suddenly the sound of wooden shoes rattling over stones announced the approach of some one. A woman came in from the barn carrying an apron full of potatoes and greens. A small army of chickens followed at a respectful distance. The woman was of medium height, kind of pudgy around the gills and places where a corset should have been. Her hands were red and big enough to handle any one-hundred-and-sixty-pound man. Of course, she wasn’t good-looking or particularly ugly, just an ordinary peasant face.

“Que désirez-vous, Messieurs?” (What will you have, messieurs?)

“Eh—bonjour, madame,” began Jimmy, unsteadily. “Avey vouse de chambre for comrade and moi?”

The woman cocked her ear to get the drift. “Chambre—pour coucher?” she asked.

“Ah, oui, madame,” assured Jimmy, picking up courage.

The woman dropped her load of potatoes and greens on the floor, kicked off the wooden boats, and, telling them to follow her, waddled into the next and only room in the house.

“Voilà!” (There), she exclaimed, pointing to a bed that was at least seven feet high.

“Bon—tres-beans, madame,” to the woman. Then Jimmy turned to O. D.: “We may need a step-ladder to get in and a pulley to get us out; but say la guerre. It’s a hundred times better than a hay-loft.”

“Sure,” said O. D., enthusiastically.

“Madame, monjay ici?” was Jimmy’s next effort.

“Mais, messieurs, je n’ai rien! Trés-difficile d’obtenir quoi que ce soit depuis la guerre! Figuerez-vous, une livre de sucre pour une personne par mois! Et du pain! O là là! C’est terrible, vous comprenz?” (Oh, messieurs, I have very little. Too difficult to get things since the war started. One pound of sugar a person for a month, a ration of bread. It’s terrible, you understand?), answered the woman, evasively.

“Oui, madame, compree; but comrade, moi, no monjay. Beaucoup hungry. Beaucoup fatigue. Compree?” questioned McGee, tapping his stomach as if it were an empty bag.

“Oui,” answered the madame, solemnly.

“Omelette, pom du tear fritz, trey-bon vous, serve comrade, moi, s’il vous plate.” Jimmy did his darnest to tell her what he was thinking.

She understood him after the fashion of the French people who had been near American soldiers before. Most of the peasants in the regions where many American soldiers were located soon learned to speak their native French just as brokenly as the Americans. It was necessary to do so in order that the likes of Jimmy McGee might compree just a little bit.

After much puffing and running around, the woman finally set a table for her hungry guests. A fifteen-egg omelet, beaucoup French-fried potatoes, what was left of Jimmy’s bread, a dish of white cheese, and a tall bottle of wine awaited the offensive of the two Americans.

“Ah, madame,” said McGee, licking his chops, “I’ll say that’s the darb——”

“Qu’est-ce qu’il dit?” (What did you say?)

“Oh, I said its mighty bon—beaucoup monjay, you compree moi?”

The peasant woman smiled at him as if she understood, and Jimmy made a dive into the middle of the big yellow omelet.

“Gee, this is the best feed I’ve sat down to in a long, long time,” admitted O. D. as he piled the brown potatoes knee-deep in his plate. “Wish I could speak French like you do, I’d be able to keep from starving.”

“Oh, I don’t parley much, just enough to get along. Course, I never have any time to study. If we get a chance I’ll teach you some of the stuff.”

“Thanks. Say, wonder if you could get her to give me a drink of water. I’ll pass away with this thirst.”

“Here, take a glass of the vin rouge. It may be better than the stuff I had in my canteen,” offered Jimmy.

“No, believe I’d rather have the water, if you can get it without too much trouble.”

“None t’all. Wait ’till the madame blows in again; I’ll see what we can do.”

“Madame, avey vous der low?” asked Jimmy, hoping that she would get his meaning.

“Der low,” repeated the woman, lost for a moment. “Der low,” again. This time with great wondering, “Pas compris, monsieur.”

“Cum see, cum saw,” explained McGee, raising an empty glass to his lips.

“Oh, pardon, monsieur, pardon, oui, tout de suite.” She hurried over to the wall and pulled a part of it out, found a cupboard where nobody else would have ever dreamed there was one, and drew forth a glass. She brought the glass to Jimmy and gave it to him.

“She didn’t get me,” groaned Jimmy. “Thought I wanted another glass, just like a Frog.” Then to the woman, “Madame, compree low, der low, drink, you savvy?” he floundered deeper.

The woman shook her head while McGee scanned the room in search of a pump or something by which he might readily explain his desire. There was nothing in sight to help him. He turned again to the waiting woman.

“Madame, moi comrade—no van rouge—no pas bon for comrade. Kisskesay, der low, water, in Fransay?” Jimmy was at the limit of his resources.

“Never mind, old man, I’ll go without it,” said O. D., coming to the rescue.

“Der low, der low,” muttered the woman shaking her head uncomprehendingly and pronouncing the word just as Jimmy had done. Suddenly a light flashed across her stolid features.

“De l’eau, vous dites.” (Water you said.)

“Oui, Oui, madame.”

“Ah, mon Dieu, de l’eau, je comprends,” and she dashed out of doors with a small bucket.

“At last she gets it—some battlin’, though. These doggone French people can’t compree this water stuff. Maybe if they’d drink more water the war’d be won faster. But I’m getting just like ’em—haven’t had any water in four days myself now. Guess I’ll tank up to-night.”

Madame returned with the water and immediately poured it all in a basin, grabbed some soap and a towel and brought the whole outfit over to Jimmy.

“Voilà!” she exclaimed as if the guerre was won.

Jimmy looked at the basin, the soap and towel. Then he looked long and hard at O. D. The woman stood fast, regarding them both, feeling suddenly guilty of having sinned again.

“Corporal of the guard, relief, post number one,” shouted Jimmy. “Can you beat that, wouldn’t it drive a man nuts? I ask for a drink of water and the woman insists that I wash. No use, O. D.” Then to the woman, “Madame, pas wash, cum saw,” and he lifted the glass to his lips for the second time.

“Quoi? Boire de l’eau? Impossible!! Buvez donc du vin! quelle race! Eh! mon Dieu! ils bovvent de l’eau!” (What! you want water to drink. Impossible. Drink the red wine. What people—what people! My God! they drink water), exclaimed the mystified woman, and she nearly went into fits.

“Oui, madame,” insisted Jimmy, raising the glass up and down as if to convince her by that action of the sincerity of his words and meaning.

“Comme vous voulent, messieurs!” (As you will then, messieurs), answered madame, and she went out for more water.

Just as the boys were hitting the cheese or fromage course as Jimmy insisted on calling it, the man of the house, or patron, as madame called him, blew in. He was nothing more and nothing less than a grizzled old poilu rigged up in civilian clothes.

“Bon swoir, messieurs,” was his hearty greeting.

“Bonjour, monsieur,” responded Jimmy, rising to shake his hand.

“Bonne mangee?” asked the Frenchman, pointing to the table.

“Oui ... trey-bien,” declared McGee, and he let out two notches in his belt to prove that he was well fed.

The old man dragged up a chair and made believe he was going to roll a cigarette. Jimmy saw the act and got wise.

“Here, have a regular cigarette,” he said, extending a pack of Piedmonts to the patron.

“Merci. Merci, monsieur.”

“Take ’em all. I can get more. Suppose we ain’t too near the front yet for the Y. M. C. A.”

“Ah, monsieur, vous êtes très?-gentil, très bon.” (Ah, sir, you are very nice, very kind.)

“Not at all.”

Once the cigarette was lighted, the man of the house waddled over to the cupboard and extracted a long dark bottle. He came back to the table, measured out four glasses of brownish-looking stuff and handed them around. He touched his own against every one else’s and shouted:

“Vive l’Amérique!”

“Vive la France!” shouted Jimmy.

The old cognac went down at a swallow. Everyone smacked their lips except O. D. He busied himself brushing away two big tears that filled his eyes.

“Bon,” grunted the Frenchman.

“Ah, oui,” answered Jimmy, patting his stomach.

“Mangee,” said the husband. He sat down with his wife to a meal of soup, with bread floating around in it, a dish of boiled potatoes, bread, cheese, and wine.

“Want to show you something, Jimmy,” said O. D., rising and getting an envelope out of his blouse. He spread a lot of pictures in front of Jimmy.

“That’s mother, in her little rose-garden. This is Mary, always loved flowers, too. See she’s hiding behind some tall lilies, just so you can see her face.”

“Gee, I can’t tell the difference between Mary and the lilies,” interrupted Jimmy, admiringly, as he looked upon the picture of Mary’s sweet, girlish face. “Golly! it must be pippin stuff to have a sister like that.”

“Here’s some more of Mary, taken on the front stoop and one at the shore when I took her down there to go swimming one hot day.”

Jimmy was so absorbed looking at Mary’s pictures that he didn’t hear the madame’s inquisitive question.

“Fiancée, fiancée?” she asked, pointing to Mary’s photo.

“No,” answered Jimmy at last, “sister, compree? S?ur to comrade,” pointing to O. D., who nodded his head in affirmation.

The snap of Mary taken on the beach fascinated Jimmy. He decided it should belong to him. When O. D. was not watching, the Yank who never let Boche shells or gas worry him swept the picture under his blouse with a strange feeling of unrest running through his body and soul.