Chapter 4

Our happiness is not dependent on conditions outside of us, but on our hearts within us, and some of the happiest men have been the victims of extraordinary misfortune and some of the unhappiest people have been possessors of great wealth who could have all they wanted. The most joyous book in the world was written by an old man in prison who had come to the conclusion that when they let him out they would chop his head off. Many a man has just grinned himself out of worse fixes than you or I are ever apt to get into.

There are very few things we cannot laugh at. By laughing, we do not actually shorten the hike, but we make it seem shorter; we do not in reality lighten the pack, but we make it seem lighter, and it all comes to the same thing, for we would rather carry a heavy load and have it seem light than carry a light load and have it seem heavy. If we laugh at the cooties when they come, and hunt them with the same merriment that the French hunt the wild boar, the joke will be on them after all, for they do not laugh back. And then they won't seem half so bad. Laughter is a good insecticide.

We American soldiers in France are in for a big thing. Just how big it is and how long it will last we do not know and no one can tell us. But we are determined that America shall do her part and that we as individuals shall do ours and be the best soldiers possible, and this is some task when we remember how gallantly our Allies have fought. It will be, in our own language, "some job," and for this reason we must use every means within our power to accomplish it. So we must not forget happiness as an asset to efficient soldiering. We will all smile where the coward would whimper, and laugh where the weakling would whine, and buckle down to what Robert Louis Stevenson called "The great task of happiness."

[Cartoon: VOLUNTEER VIC'S BIG IDEA BY LEMEN IN THE ST. LOUIS POST-DISPATCH]

[THANK GOODNESS! IVE GOT ON MY STEEL HELMET THIS RAIN WOULD GET MY FELT HAT ALL OUT OF SHAPE]

[GEE! THIS THING TURNS ALL THE WATER DOWN MY NECK]

[TIN-SMITH]

[DONT SEE WHY THEY DIDNT THINK ABOUT BUILDING A GUTTER ON THESE BLAMED THINGS BEFORE]

---- THERE'S A REASON. ----

No more ham or eggs or grapefruit when the bugle blows for chow. No more apple pie or dumplings, for we're in the army now; and they feed us beans for breakfast, and at noon we have 'em, too; while at night they fill our tummies with a good old army stew.

No more shirts of silk and linen. We all wear the O. D. stuff. No more night shirts or pyjamas, for our pants are good enough. No more feather ticks or pillows, but we're glad to thank the Lord we've got a cot and blanket when we might just have a board.

For they feed us beans for breakfast, and at noon we have 'em, too; while at night they fill our stomachs with a good old army stew. By, by gum, we'll lick the kaiser when the sergeants teach us how, for, dad burn it, he's the reason that we're in the army now!--Pittsburgh Post.

---- A DOUGHBOY'S DICTIONARY. ----

Camouflage--Wearing an overcoat to reveille.

Military Road--A large body of land, without beginning or end, entirely covered by water.

Camion--1. A large, immovable body which one is expected to carry on one's shoulders through the mud. 2. The thing that brings the mail out.

Army Rifle--Something eternally dirty which must be kept eternally clean.

Bayonet--A long, sharp, pointed object whose only satisfactory resting place is the midriff of a Hun.

Pay-day--1. A "movable feast." 2. A time for cancellation of debts. 3. The date of the return of the laundry one sent away a month and a half before.

---- THIS REALLY HAPPENED. ----

End of letter: "Goodbye, my dear, for the present. Yours, Jack." Then--"x--x--x--x--x--x--x--x. P. S. I hope the censor doesn't object to those crosses."

Added by Friend Censor: "Certainly not! x--x--x--x--x--x--x--x!"

---- KISS FOR RESCUER OF PIG FROM BLAZE ---- A Beantown Fire-Fighter Hero of Epoch-Making Conflagration. ----

"Weee-ah-eeeeeee-ah-eeeeeee!"

Private John Doe, late of the Boston fire department, knew something was up when, on a certain Sunday morning not long ago, he heard that sound issuing from the second story of the house-barn in which his command was billeted. Also he saw a thin streamer of smoke, no bigger than Rhode Island, winding its way out of the house-barn door. He sniffed, then hollered "Fire!"

"Fire?" echoed some of his bunk mates, coming up the road. Fire? How could there be fire in a country where not even sulphurous language served to start the kitchen kindlings? How could there be fire in a country where only every other match will light at all, at all?

Nevertheless, up they hustled, to see a bit of blaze lapping the edge of the house-barn door, and to hear, from within, the plaintive cry of "Weee-ah-eeeeee-ah-eeeeeee!"

"Steady, piggy darlint!" came Private Doe's soothing accents, from the second story. "Sure an' it's meeself will resthcue yeze from this burnin' ould shack! You below there! Climb on up an' lind a hand at pullin' out the hay that's up here, or ilse the whole place will be burnted down intoirely!"

Enter the Reserves.

Into the barn rushed half of Private Doe's squad. The other half, calling down the road, summoned a good two companies, which came up on the double.

At this point entered, front and centre, M. le Maire of the commune, who, being the owner of the pig in distress, had more than a casual interest in the proceedings. "The fire engine! The fire engine!" he shouted, in accents both wild and French. But, since there had been no fire in the town in fifty years, nobody seemed to know just what he meant.

Fact! No fire in the town in fifty years! 'Way back in the days of Napoleon III. there had been a fire, a little blaze, in the town. Think of that, you insurance men who used to write policies for clothing dealers on New York's East Side!

When he had sufficiently recovered his avoirdupois, M. le Maire dragged out of the Hotel de Ville, with the aid of the embattled infantrymen, _some_ fire apparatus, of early Bourbon vintage. One private who helped handle it swears that he spotted the date "1748" on the leather hose which led from a water tank, about twelve by eight by four, toward the general direction of the fire. The tank, in turn, had to be filled by a bucket brigade strung along from the scene of action to the village fountain, about a quarter of a mile away.

Fire a Social Success.

It's a shame to spoil a good story, but Private Doe did not throw down the pig into an army blanket held out to receive it. He clambered down a smouldering flight of ladder stairs, with His Pigship under his arm, quite unharmed, save for a severe nervous shock. Aside from a few scorched kit bags, the loss of the top sergeant's cherished pipe, and a few lungfuls of smoke acquired by Private Doe, the fire was not a success--that is, from a historical standpoint. But as a social event, in bringing the Americans--and Private Doe, kissed by the lady mayoress for his pains, in particular--closer to the hearts of the villagers, it was decidedly there.

---- JIM. ----

Honest, but Jim was the sourest man in all o' Comp'ny G; You could sing and tell stories the whole night long, but never a cuss gave he. You could feed him turkey at Christmastime--and Tony the cook's no slouch-- But Jim wouldn't join in "Three cheers for the cook!" Gosh, but he had a grouch!

He wouldn't go up to the hill cafay when our daily hike was done, And sip his beer, and chin with the lads, the crabby son-of-a-gun; He'd growl if you asked him to hold the light, he'd snarl if you asked for a butt, Till at last the gang was 'most ready to put Jim down for a mutt.

About the first time that our mail came in, we all felt as high as a king; "What luck?" somebody hollers to Jim: he says, "Not a dad-blamed thing." And then he goes off in his end o' the shack, and Tom Breed swears 'at he cried; But when somebody went and repeated it, Jim swore, by gad, Tom lied.

We were gettin' our mail, irregular-like, for about a month or two; But Jim? He never drew anything, and blooey! but he was blue! Not only blue, but surly; he was off'n the whole darn shop, And once he was put onto "heavy" for talkin' back to the Top.

'Twas a day or two before New Year's, when the postal truck came in; The orderly fishes one out for Jim; he takes it, without a grin, And then, as he opens the envelope--eeyow! How that man did yell: "A letter from James J., Junior, boys! the youngster has learnt to spell!"

So nothin' would do but the bunch of us had to read the letter through; 'Twas all writ out by that kid of his, and a mighty smart kid, too, For it isn't every six-year-old at school as can take a prize, (Like the boy wrote Jim as he had done): and you oughter seen Jim's eyes!

Well, Jim had a mighty good New Year's; he stood the squad a treat, And now, 'stead o' turnin' out sloppy, he's always trim and neat; Fact is, the lieutenant passed the word that if Jim keeps on that way He'll be wearing little stripes on his arm and drawin' a bit more pay.

Don't it beat hell how a little thing will change a man like that? Now Jim's as cheerful as anything instead o' mum as a bat. An' the reason? Why, it's easy! A guy is bound to fail Of bein' a proper soldier if he don't get no fambly mail!

If all of those post office birds was wise to the change they made in Jim, They'd hustle a bit on our letters, for they's lots that's just like him; It may be a kid, or it may be a girl; a mother, a pal, a wife,-- And believe me, this hearin' from 'em--why, it's half o' the joy o' life!

Chartered 1822

The Farmers' Loan and Trust Company

NEW YORK

PARIS BORDEAUX 41, Boulevard Haussmann 8, Cours du Chapeau-Rouge

AND TWO ARMY ZONE OFFICES

Specially designated

United States Depositary of Public Moneys.

LONDON: 26, Old Broad Street, E.C.2 and 16, Pall Mall East. S.W.1.

The Societe Generale pour favoriser etc., & its Branches throughout France will act as our correspondents for the cashing of Officers' cheques & transfer of funds for MEMBERS of the AMERICAN EXPEDITIONARY FORCES.

---- BIG GUNS ON FLAT CARS TO BATTER HUNS' LINES. ---- A. E. F. Operates Railroad Artillery that will Hurl Tons of Steel Twenty Miles into Enemy's Territory. ---- LONG-BARRELLED 155s ARE ALSO DEADLY. ---- Fortresses and Mountains Crumble like Sandhills Before Blasts from the Busters. ----

When Rudyard Kipling paid his famous tribute to the late Rear-Admiral "Fighting Bob" Evans of the United States Navy some years ago, one of his verses ran:

"Zogbaum can handle his shadows, And I can handle my style; And you can handle a ten-inch gun To carry seven mile."

That was a pretty fair gun for those days. But nowadays, we speak of handling a sixteen-inch gun to carry twenty miles. Not only do we speak of it, but we--we of the A.E.F.--actually do the handling.

The "big boys" are here. They are busters. They have more machinery attached to them than the average small factory. Because of the fact that they are mounted on cars and ride on rails they are known rather as the "railroad artillery" than the heavy artillery. They have been practicing for a long time on a "blasted heath" somewhere in France, where there wasn't anything within twenty miles of them that would be hurt by their gentle attentions. And, when they do practice Jee-roosh! Hold onto your ear-drums and open your mouth!

Big Fellows Hard to Move.

But the actual practice at making perfectly good targets resemble grease-spots on the oil-cloth doesn't take up but a bit of the time of the men who constitute the crew. They have to know a lot about moving the big fellow, raising him and lowering him, anchoring him so he won't right-step and left-step when he's supposed to be firing, cleaning him up for inspection and the like.

About seventy per cent. of them learned a good deal about the firing end back in the Coast Artillery Corps in the States, but this business of riding a big gun on a railroad bed, and so forth, was new to a good many of them until recently. Now, they say, the minute the aero observer up above gives them range and so forth, they are ready to go ahead and batter the eternal daylights out of anything from the Kaiserschloss down to old Hindenburg himself.

Besides the big guns that hurl a whole hardware shop-ful of steel at the enemy, there are long-barreled 155s, and deadly devices they are in their way, too. But it is about the big babies, the instruments which, more than any other save the aeroplanes, typify for most of us the advanced methods of modern warfare, that most of the attention is centered. The 155s and the other smaller bores can be pulled up to within striking distance of the line by trucks and caterpillar tractors, but the heftiest never leave the railroad flat cars on which they are built. In other words, they are rolling stock destined to keep a rolling and a rolling and a rolling until they roll right on into Germany.

Getting One Ready to Fire.

It takes several hours to get a big one ready for firing but once its mechanism is started, under the capable handling of a trained crew, it works with the prettiness and precision of an engine. First the gun rolls forward on to an arrangement of curved tracks which are called "epies," and whose tips point toward the objective. Then, to steady the piece, twelve large wooden feet are dropped by hydraulic jacks against the rails, and the gun is ready to fire.

It fires, all right, sending a good ton of steel in the direction indicated by the aerial observer. When it recoils, the flat car and all slides back a good couple of yards on the rails. Then it is brought back into position again, the barrel is cooled by jets of water, the wooden feet are braced again, and the piece loaded. Even with all those operations, the big fellow can fire a good forty shots a minute.

But, though they can fire those forty per minute, each one takes a lot out of the big fellow's life. Unlike the guns of smaller calibre, they cannot be used over and over again. They are too powerful to be used in actual trench warfare, but let a fortress, or a mountain that has perversely got in the way of operations, loom up ahead, and down it goes! Also the big shells have been found exceedingly useful in knocking in the roofs of German tunnels underground, even those that are quarried out ninety feet under the surface.

All in all, the big fellow has a short life, but--if he's directed right--it's a mighty gay one.

---- A BULL IS DURHAM'S PRIDE. ----

A Durham, N. C., enthusiast recently telegraphed to United States Marine Corps headquarters in Washington:

"Terrier belonging to U.S. Marine kills huge rooster after battle royal in main thoroughfare. Indignant chicken fanciers witness affair and demand dog pay death penalty. Then they learn ill-fated rooster's name was 'Kaiser.' Result: Dog is now pride of Durham."

---- "HE MAY OVERHEAR IT!" ----

"Aw, he ain't a bad skipper--as skippers go!"

"Gee, though, that was some clip he run us at on the way up that hill! It pulled my cork all right, I'll tell the world!"

"Sat'day afternoon drill, too, eh? I wonder, is he goin' to work us all eight days o' the week?"

"Aw, lay off! Don't blame him! He gets hell from higher up if he don't work us, don't he? He ain't the boss!"

"Listen, guy! I wish you'd of worked for the cap'n I had to work for in the Philippines! This bird is tame alongside o' him!"

"He's a good skate, all right, when he's off duty. I was talkin' to the top the other day, and he says--"

"Sure, he's the real thing! Served two hitches in the ranks before he come up to where he is now!"

"Who? The cap'n? Say, bo, he's a regular guy, he is!"

TIFFANY & Co

25, Rue de la Paix and Place de l'Opera

PARIS

LONDON, 221, Regent Street, W. NEW YORK, Fifth Avenue and 37th Street

Exclusive [Illustration] "Regulation Styles Pattern" Special Fittings

WALK-OVER SHOE COMPANY

34 Boulevard des Italiens 19-21 Boul. des Capucines

PARIS NEW YORK LONDON LYONS, 12 rue de la Republique NAPLES, 215 Via Roma.

Sole Agent in France for "ONYX" HOSIERY

All soldiers are welcome at the WALK-OVER Stores, where they can apply for any information, and where all possible services of any kind will be rendered free of charge.

BELLE JARDINIERE

2, Rue du Pont-Neuf, PARIS

THE LARGEST OUTFITTERS in THE WORLD

French and Allied Military Uniforms

EVERY ARTICLE for Officers and Mens' outfits and Equipments

Agents for BURBERRYS

Sole Branches: PARIS, 1, Place de Clichy, LYON, MARSEILLE BORDEAUX, NANTES, NANCY, ANGERS

Self-measurement Cards, Catalogues and Patterns, Post Free on application.

JOHN BAILLIE & CO.

1 Rue Auber, PARIS

(Opp. Ticket Office of Grand Opera.)

_The Military Tailor to United States Officers._

All Insignia, Sam Browne Belts, Trench Coats. Large variety in stock.

UNIFORMS MADE TO ORDER IN 24 HOURS

"WORLD SERVICE."

AMERICAN EXPRESS CO.

11, Rue Scribe, PARIS.

BORDEAUX HAVRE MARSEILLES 3, Cours de Gourgue. 43, Quai d'Orleans. 9, Rue Beauvau.

GENERAL BANKING FACILITIES FOR AMERICAN EXPEDITIONARY FORCES.

DEPOSIT AND SAVINGS ACCOUNTS OPENED. PAY CHEQUES CASHED. REGIMENTAL AND COMPANY ACCOUNTS.

REMITTANCES FORWARDED BY MAIL AND CABLE.

Travelers' Cheque -- Drafts -- Money Orders.

TRAFFIC DEPARTMENT. TRAVEL DEPARTMENT.

Shipments of every description Steamship and Railroad forwarded to all parts of the world. Tickets issued.

EASTER GIFTS.

Purchases including Gifts, Flowers, etc., for delivery in United States at Easter or other festivals and on anniversaries may be arranged through

AMERICAN EXPRESS CO. ORDER AND COMMISSION DEPARTMENT.

The COMPTOIR NATIONAL D'ESCOMPTE DE PARIS

which Bank has branches throughout France are Correspondents for the American Express Company and will accept remittances for payment through the American Express Company, also deposits for transfer to Bank Accounts opened with American Express Co.

---- The Stars and Stripes. ----

The official publication of the American Expeditionary Forces; authorized by the Commander-in-Chief, A.E.F.

Published every Friday by and for the men of the A.E.F., all profits to accrue to subscribers' company funds.

Editorial: Guy T. Viskniskki, 2nd Lieut. Inf., N.A.; Charles P. Cushing, 2nd Lieut. U.S.M.C.R.; Hudson Hawley, Pvt., M.G.Bn.; A. A. Wallgren, Pvt., U.S.M.C.

Advertising: William K. Michael, 1st Lieut. Inf., U.S.R.

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Address all communications relating to advertising and all other business matters, except subscriptions, to THE STARS AND STRIPES, Press Division, 10, Rue Sainte-Anne, Paris, France.

Address all communications relating to text, art, and subscriptions to THE STARS AND STRIPES, Press Division, G.H.Q., A.E.F., France.

---- FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 8, 1918. ----

THE STARS AND STRIPES is printed at the plant of the London _Daily Mail's_ Continental edition in Paris. The paper stock is supplied by _La Societe Anonyme des Papeteries Darblay_. Only the hearty co-operation of these two institutions, one British, one French, has made it possible for the A.E.F. to have a newspaper all its own. Unity of purpose among the representatives of three allied nations has succeeded in producing THE STARS AND STRIPES, even as it will succeed in winning the war.

---- "TO THE COLORS!" ----

With this issue THE STARS AND STRIPES reports for active service with the A. E. F. It is _your_ paper, and has but one axe to grind--the axe which our Uncle Samuel is whetting on the grindstone for use upon the august necks of the Hapsburgs and the Hohenzollerns.

THE STARS AND STRIPES is unique in that every soldier purchaser, every soldier subscriber, is a stockholder and a member of the board of directors. It isn't being run for any individual's profit, and it serves no class but the fighting men in France who wear the olive drab and the forest green. Its profits go to the company funds of the soldier subscribers, and the staff of the paper isn't paid a sou.

If you don't find in this, your own weekly, the things in which you are particularly interested, write to the editors, and if it is humanly possibly they will dig up the stuff you want. There are so many of you over here now, and so many different sorts of you, that it is more than likely that some of your hobbies have been overlooked in this our first number. Let us know.

We want to hear from that artist in your outfit, that ex-newspaper reporter, that short story writer, that company "funny man," and that fellow who writes the verses. We want to hear from all of you--for THE STARS AND STRIPES is your paper, first, last and all the time; for you and for those of your friends and relatives to whom you will care to send it.

THE STARS AND STRIPES is up at the top o' the mast for the duration of the war. It will try to reach every one of you, every week--mud, shell-holes and fog notwithstanding. It will yield rights of the roadway only to troops and ambulances, food, ammunition and guns, and the paymaster's car. It has a big job ahead to prove worthy of its namesake, but, with the help of all of you, it will, in good old down east parlance, "do its gol-derndest" to deliver the goods. So--For-_ward_! MARCH!

---- FATHER ABRAHAM. ----