“You can’t tell me that this guerre is goin’ to finee toot sweet,” asserted Jimmy McGee to an infirmary orderly. “Listen to that hell-bent-for-election noise.” He paused to allow himself and the orderly to appreciate the significance of his assertion.
Both had grown accustomed to the thunder of barrages and the din of battles, but their ears were not listening to any ordinary bombardment. Their pals in arms were putting over the heaviest artillery fusillade that had ever made the base of Verdun’s brave citadel tremble. The noise was magnificent and awe-inspiring. The men held their tongues awhile. Then Jimmy spoke.
“Maybe it’s possible, but I doubt it. How the hell can they stop a thing like this guerre so quick?”
“Damn if I know. Sounds like bull to me, but the radio order says that we stop fightin’ at eleven o’clock. That’s all I know,” answered the orderly.
“I’m going to breeze ’round a bit. If it’s straight dope I’ll blow up to the position. Want to get a picture of O. D.’s grave. Camouflage me if any of them guys get wonderin’ where I am. The old wing’s gettin’ très-bon now, anyhow. They might just as well let me go back to the battery,” and Jimmy took his bandaged left arm out of its sling just to prove his words.
“Go on, I’ll cover you up,” said the orderly.
Jimmy wandered through the different barracks of the regimental échelon and finally landed at Headquarters Office.
“What’s the dope, Barney?” asked Jimmy of a bespectacled sergeant who sat humped over a desk full of morning reports.
“The guerre is finee at eleven o’clock,” was the answer in slow, methodic tones.
