CHAPTER VII

"AT HOME"

"This is certainly some ride," grumbled Corporal Bob Dalton to Sergeant Jimmy Blaise. "I've had enough of old Eight Horses and goodness knows how many men to last me for a while. There are supposedly forty-eight Sammies in this band-box. I should say there were nearer ten thousand. I'd have sure croaked standing up, if you hadn't been along to take the curse off."

"I'm glad we got in the same car, shoe-box I mean."

Sergeant Jimmy's voice sounded decidedly weary. Luckily for himself and Bob, they had been assigned to the same car, Bob being corporal of a squad in Jimmy's platoon. Roger, Schnitzel and Ignace were scattered somewhere through the train, though neither Bob nor Jimmy knew which car their bunkies were in.

"Well, it'll soon be over." Jimmy breathed a sigh of relief. "We've been two days and two nights on the road. It's now five o'clock, we ought to be out of this dump soon. I never believed I could sleep standing up, but I know it now."

"Here, too. I hope we get a night's rest stretched out before we hit the trenches," was Bob's wistful reply.

"Oh, we won't go straight to the trenches in this train. We'll probably be in rest billets several days before we're called to take our turn."

"Wonder how the fellows like it," mused Bob. "I'll bet Iggy's slept most of the way. Nothing fazes him when he wants to sleep. He could pound his ear standing on his head."

Both Khaki Boys snickered a little as they imagined Ignace turned upside down and sleeping peacefully, nevertheless.

"It seems a long while since we left Sterling, doesn't it?"

Jimmy broke the silence that had fallen upon both, succeeding Bob's humorous remark concerning his Polish Brother.

"It certainly does. I had a funny standing-up nightmare about old Sterling last night." Bob grinned reminiscently. "I'd braced my back against the wall of this box and was taking forty winks. I'd been thinking about that Bixton affair and old Schnitz, and I dreamed that good old Major Stearns was a Boche spy, and that he was trying to finish me with a bayonet. He'd just given me an awful punch in the chest and I was yelling: 'What's eating you, you rough neck!'

"The sound of my own voice woke me up, and I found that a man next to me had hauled off and binged me one in his sleep. It was a joke, and we both laughed after we got wise to ourselves. Wonder you didn't hear me yowl."

"I've heard so many different kinds of yowls since I landed in this jug that I'm used to 'em. Well, it's a great life if you don't weaken."

Jimmy yawned and, reaching for his water bottle, took a long drink.

"Hope we stop somewhere soon," he observed. "I've emptied this bottle, and I'm still thirsty."

Shortly afterward his wish for a speedy detrainment was granted. A series of jolts, which caused the imprisoned Sammies to behave like nine-pins, except that they had not sufficient space to topple over, and the famous "Eight Horses" came at last to a full stop.

Freed at last, the Khaki Boys gladly hustled from the ungracious box-cars to the platform of a village station, dotted as usual with the friendly French folk, whom the Khaki Boys had noticed were always in evidence wherever they went.

The two detachments of Uncle Sam's boys had hardly left the train, however, before they discovered that for once they were not the center of attraction. Waiting on the platform to enter the train they had just left was a company of slightly wounded French soldiers returning from active service on the firing line.

Though these men were still able to walk, they presented a pitiful sight. With arms or heads bound up in blood-stained bandages, their faces wan and racked by pain, they brought home to the full the grim horror of the trenches. Yet nearly every face wore an attempt at a smile. Bandaged heads made gay attempts at nodding to the villagers who were worshiping at their shrine in true French fashion.

One man whose arms were both bound up, blood trickling from his face, bent painfully down to speak to a little boy who was shouting lustily, "_Vive la France_," and waving a little French flag at the wrecked heroes.

Watching the little scene in fascinated horror, it occurred briefly to Jimmy that for fighters these men were a curious-looking lot. Accustomed to the olive drab uniform and the usually clean-shaven face of the Sammy, these whiskered _poilus_ with their red trousers and long blue coats pinned back from the front seemed strangely unlike soldiers. Their bandaged heads and arms, and scratched, bleeding faces told quite a different story, however. They had known what it was to be under fire. They had done their bit for France.

Ardent as was the admiration shown for these wounded soldiers, the Khaki Boys were not slighted. As they formed into platoons and marched away from the station, they were wildly applauded by the gathered throng, part of which followed along after them.

As they tramped along through the narrow streets to headquarters, their progress was accompanied by a new sound--a steady, heavy rumble that went on ceaselessly. They had now come within the thunder of the big guns. Off to the east of the village the fight against an unworthy foe was raging. With every heavy detonation, war was taking its toll of lives.

Under his breath, Jimmy found himself repeating:

"At the front brave men are falling, Now's your time to do and dare!"

He wondered if the man who, far back in peaceful America, had composed the words of the "Glory Road" song could possibly realize the meaning of his own song.

A march of a little over a mile through the village, and the long lines of soldier boys had reached headquarters. Here began the work of assigning them to temporary quarters. With night approaching it was necessary to put the men in lodgings with all possible despatch.

"Lodgings" for fighting men nearing the front consist of anything from the odd, not over-clean French farmhouses to stables and barns. The best horses naturally fall to the officers; with the enlisted men it is a case of Hobson's choice.

Just as the first stars of evening began to appear in the clear, wintry sky, Jimmy Blaise marched his command into a stable. Ten minutes later he had begged the back cover of a note-book from Corporal Bob Dalton, and printed on it in large black letters:

AT HOME SERGEANT BLAISE AND THIRTY-TWO MEN

Sergeant Jimmy Blazes was "at home" to all comers.