“Finally the job came through—I was to enlist on August eleventh. The night before I started down to Providence to see some friends and say au revoir. On the way I ran into a column of field artillery headed for a railroad station.
“Where you fellows goin’?” I asked.
“To France,” answered a little corporal.
“To France,” says I to myself a couple of times, and I’m going to take a plush-lined job down at a Coast Artillery fort. Never do it. Sure enough two hours later, me, my white flannels, silk shirt, and dinky Panama was on board a flat ridin’ toward Boxford, Massachusetts.
“That night I cushayed on the ground with a horse-blanket for coverin’. Great God! Thought I’d freeze to death before the bugle blew to quit cushayin’. Next mornin’ I was sworn in. For three days I drilled, dressed up in my white pants and seashore outfit. They didn’t have a uniform big enough for me. Gee, it was funny for everybody but me. Finally I got a pair of breeches that wouldn’t split everytime I tried to get in ’em.
“We got beaucoup of that squad’s east and double-time stuff there. Then came an order for my battalion to partee for Newport News, Virginia.
“Down there they put us doin’ guard duty over a few miles of wild horses and hungry mules. Stayed there a month and a half. Then we got orders. That’s how I got in this man’s army,” concluded Jimmy.
“Gee, you’re the most interesting fellow I ever met. Don’t quit now. How did you come across?”
“One Saturday afternoon me, George Neil, and Sundberg was sittin’ in a theater watchin’ some guys fall in and out of stale slapstick stuff when a gink, the manager, I guess, blew out on the stage between acts and said that all men in the One Hundred and Third Field Artillery must report toot sweet in front of the house.”
“Monsieur, voulez-vous coucher maintenant?” (Will you sleep now?) interrupted the madame.