At last, after what seemed ten years to the waiting, strange one, the dust-sprinkled Yank said outloud, more to himself than anyone else, “Oui—it moves and breathes—guess it’s real—take a chance, anyhow.” Then to the object of his remarks: “What outfit, yourself, old man?”
“None—that is, so far,” was the astonishing answer, made in a voice that hadn’t taken on the tone of confidence which Jimmy knew well could only be found out where he and a bunch of his side-kickers had been living during the past few months.
“Well—that’s a hell of a good outfit to belong to. Guess you ain’t bothered with second lieutenants much then, eh?” queried Jimmy, pushing his shapeless roll over his head and letting it fall to the earth with a thud.
“How do you mean—worried?” asked the wondering man, whose appearance brought back memories of the hated O. D. days to Jimmy.
“Oh, you never had many of ’em hangin’ around you for salutes, givin’ foolish commands that ought to be listed with dead letters in the office at Washington. That’s what I’m gettin’ at.... Get me, now?”
A gas-mask, two bulging musettes, the bottom of a mess-kit, and a French canteen were thrown to the ground. McGee’s great height began to assert itself. He stretched his long arms and shook a case of field-glasses and a German luger aloose from their insecure attachments to his left shoulder straps.
“Yes, I see now. No, can’t say that I’ve minded them so much as I haven’t been in the Army long,” replied Jimmy’s roadside find.
“So,” muttered Jimmy reflectively. “Say, when in hell did you enlist anyway?”
“I didn’t—I was drafted,” answered O. D., as McGee had already mentally nicknamed the man in front of him.
“Oui—Oui—I compree,” said the product of eight months in the mud and rain of the Western Front, nodding his head affirmatively.