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: