“I WANT TO GET A PICTURE OF O. D.’s GRAVE”
“Guess it’s straight enough if Barney believes it,” muttered Jimmy, closing the door.
He found Joyce, borrowed a pocket camera from him, and started for the front. Jimmy evaded Verdun and picked the straight road from Thierville to Bras. From Bras he intended following the muddy trail that led directly to the present position of his outfit.
A continuous stream of nondescript traffic flowed past him going in the direction of the échelons. Captured Boche wagons, ammunition limbers, ration-trucks, caissons, staff cars, and ambulances were some of the vehicles that passed Jimmy as he plodded along. Their presence on the road at ten-thirty in the morning was a significant thing in itself. He knew that such heavy traffic was forbidden on roads that were under enemy fire during the hours of daylight. But the rattle and clatter of the motley traffic could not drown out the fury of the American bombardment.
“Well, it’s finee, old man,” shouted a man in fatigue clothes riding a balky mule.
“Oui,” responded Jimmy, unenthusiastically.
At Bras Jimmy stopped at one of the ambulance stations to watch them load on some boys who had just been wounded.
“Where the hell are you bound? The guerre’s finee.”
Jimmy looked at the speaker. He was Mike Merrowitz, of his own outfit.
“Goin’ up to the battery. What the hell did you do to your arm, Mike?”