The next few hours passed in such a whirl that they were never clearly defined in the boys' memory. Event followed event with dizzying rapidity. Short trips on strange, camouflaged little railroads, alternated with dashes in strange, large, unkempt automobiles driven by haggard, desperate, cool, young fellows who looked and were equal to any emergency. Little was said. Occasionally they were personally conducted by one or two French officers who talked rapidly in their own tongue to Colonel Bright, who actually understood what they said, and fired back remarks almost as rapid as theirs.
"Machine guns!" Beany muttered once to his brother.
As they went on, the country commenced to show devastating effect of war. By the time darkness fell they were passing through a torn and tumbled landscape, with here and there a ruined village. They reached a place finally, unlighted, almost unmarked in the darkness. The boys wondered at the cleverness of the chauffeur as he silently rounded a corner and brought his car up to a ruined gateway, behind which a small squat building showed dimly.
Without a word Colonel Bright went rapidly up the path, the boys following closely behind, while the orderly carried the Colonel's bags.
A low tap on the door and it opened, disclosing a densely dark hall or room; the boys could not see enough to tell what it was. As the door was closed, a flashlight was pressed, and they were able to follow their guide across the space and through another corridor to a heavy door. A low tap and this door was opened.
As they entered, a man rose from a desk. He was gray and grizzled; a man whose keen face and eagle glance ware destined to live as long as history is written or read, a man in whom America rests her pride and hopes.
As they entered, he bent his piercing glance upon them; then, recognizing Colonel Bright, his face was lighted with a bright smile that suddenly wiped out its lines of care, and he stepped forward, both hands extended in greeting.
It was General Pershing.
The boys, standing well back in the shadows of the gloomy room, felt something catch their throats.
France… the firing line… General Pershing…