"No--oh, no. It was a good shell hole. I stayed. But you know
Fritzie came up!" he answered.

So our taste for water with our meals, which is America's choicest
privilege, passed. Henry could drink the coffee, but it didn't
taste good to me. The brackish red wine they served with the army
ration tasted like diluted vinegar and looked like pokeberry ink.
It seemed only good to put in our fountain pens. A tablespoonful
would last me all day. Our week's trip ended at Monter-en-Der,
where there was a hotel and an Ambulance corps unit that had been
over to visit the American troops and had brought back from the
commissary department much loot. Among other things was water--bottled
water, pure unfermented water. And when we sat at table they brought
me a bottle.

Try going seven days on pokeberry ink and boiled coffee yourself
and note the reaction. Your veins will be dry; your stomach will
crackle as it grinds the food. The water in that bottle, a quart
bottle, evaporated. They brought another. It disappeared. They brought
a third. The waiters in the hotel were attracted by the sight. No
Frenchman ever drinks water with his meals, and the spectacle of
this American sousing himself with water while he ate was a rare
sight. The waiters gathered in the corner to watch me. Henry saw
them, and motioned toward me, and tapped his forehead. They went
and brought other waiters and men from the bar. He was a rare
bird; this American going on a big drunk on water. So they peered
in doors, through windows and stood in the diningroom corners to
watch the fourth bottle go down. And when at the end of the meal
the American rose, and walked through the crowd, they made way