A vision of the Chef de la section Sanitaire Ving-et-Un passed through my
mind. The doughy face. Imitation-English-officer swagger. Large calves,
squeaking puttees. The daily lecture: "I doughno what's th'matter with
you fellers. You look like nice boys. Well-edjucated. But you're so dirty
in your habits. You boys are always kickin' because I don't put you on a
car together. I'm ashamed to do it, that's why. I doughtwanta give this
section a black eye. We gotta show these lousy Frenchmen what Americans
are. We gotta show we're superior to 'em. Those bastards doughno what a
bath means. And you fellers are always hangin' 'round, talkin' with them
dirty frog-eaters that does the cookin' and the dirty work 'round here.
How d'you boys expect me to give you a chance? I'd like to put you
fellers on a car, I wanta see you boys happy. But I don't dare to, that's
why. If you want me to send you out, you gotta shave and look neat, and
_keep away from them dirty Frenchmen_. We Americans are over here to
learn them lousy bastards something."

I laughed for sheer joy.

A terrific tumult interrupted my mirth. "_Par ici!_"--"Get out of the way
you damn Polak!"--"M'sieu, M'sieu!"--"Over here!"--"_Mais
non!_"--"_Gott-ver-dummer!_" I turned in terror to see my _paillasse_ in
the clutches of four men who were apparently rending it in as many
directions.

One was a clean-shaven youngish man with lively eyes, alert and muscular,
whom I identified as the man who had called me "Johnny." He had hold of a
corner of the mattress and was pulling against the possessor of the
opposite corner: an incoherent personage enveloped in a buffoonery of
amazing rags and patches, with a shabby head on which excited wisps of