Jimmy saw that Preston was getting too interested and might ask for a story about the war, so he directed traffic in another direction.
“You didn’t give me a chance to tell you why I want to call you O. D. Now, you see, we call anything that is regulation, red tape, and all that kind of stuff, O. D.—just a sort of nickname. When I first saw you I thought you was a soldier out of the drill-regulation book or a model for some magazine artist. You see, you’re all made up accordin’ to the blue-print. Carry your blankets just so; wear your cap at a right slant; got your blouse buttoned up. Hell fire! you’re O. D.-lookin’, that’s all. You’re the first of that kind I’ve seen in a mighty long time, so I’m going to call you O. D.... From now on you’re O. D.... Compree?”
“Have it your way. What’s your name?” asked O. D.
“McGee. Jimmy, most of the gang calls me. Do the same.”
“All right, Jimmy.”
“You say you’re a replacement?”
“Yes. I arrived in Bar-le-Duc yesterday with a detail and got separated from it. The A. P. M. told me to take this road and keep on going until I located my regiment,” explained O. D.
“Got lost, myself, last night,” admitted Jimmy. “What outfit are you goin’ to?”
“The One Hundred and Third Field Artillery. What division is that?” O. D.’s question was drowned under Jimmy’s whoop.
“Well, I’m a son-of-a-gun! That’s my own outfit—Twenty-sixth, Yankee Division, of course,” shouted McGee as he slapped O. D. across his shoulders. “What the hell do you know about that! I’ll get you assigned to my battery. Shake, old man, we’ll fight the rest of this guerre together.”