“... But before he got it, he knew that we were winning.” The men put on their helmets and went away, to look for others who had stopped in the woods ... to gather souvenirs.
“Well, he’s where he ain’t hungry, an’ his feet don’t hurt from hikin’, an’ his heavy marchin’ order won’t never cut into his shoulders any more....” “No, nor no damn Boche buzzards drop air-bombs on him——”
“Wonder where we’ll hit the old Boche next——”
Fighting north of Blanc Mont, Champagne.
SONGS
TWO
“CARRY ME BACK TO OLE VIRGINNY”
The old Boche helmet made an excellent thing to cook with. You jabbed a few holes in it with a bayonet, so’s to have a draft, and a mess-kit fitted over it beautifully. When you could get it, strips of high explosive, picked up around a 155-mm. gun position, made the best fuel, giving you a fine, hot, smokeless fire. Smoke was not desirable on the front.
The chap on the opposite page is frying hard bread in bacon grease; he will sprinkle a little beet-sugar on it and have a real delicacy. Filling, too. As he goes about this domestic labor, he is humming “Carry me back to Ole Virginny.” But the files in the background are attracted by the smell—not the song.
III