AMERICAN EXPRESS CO. ORDER AND COMMISSION DEPARTMENT.

The COMPTOIR NATIONAL D'ESCOMPTE DE PARIS

which Bank has branches throughout France are Correspondents for the American Express Company and will accept remittances for payment through the American Express Company, also deposits for transfer to Bank Accounts opened with American Express Co.



—— The Stars and Stripes. ——

The official publication of the American Expeditionary Forces; authorized by the Commander-in-Chief, A.E.F.

Published every Friday by and for the men of the A.E.F., all profits to accrue to subscribers' company funds.

Editorial: Guy T. Viskniskki, 2nd Lieut. Inf., N.A.; Charles P. Cushing, 2nd Lieut. U.S.M.C.R.; Hudson Hawley, Pvt., M.G.Bn.; A. A. Wallgren, Pvt., U.S.M.C.

Advertising: William K. Michael, 1st Lieut. Inf., U.S.R.

Fifty centimes a copy. Subscription price to soldiers, 4 francs for three months. To civilians, 5 francs for three months. All advertising contracts payable weekly.

Address all communications relating to advertising and all other business matters, except subscriptions, to THE STARS AND STRIPES, Press Division, 10, Rue Sainte-Anne, Paris, France.

Address all communications relating to text, art, and subscriptions to THE STARS AND STRIPES, Press Division, G.H.Q., A.E.F., France.



—— FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 8, 1918. ——

THE STARS AND STRIPES is printed at the plant of the London Daily Mail's Continental edition in Paris. The paper stock is supplied by La Societe Anonyme des Papeteries Darblay. Only the hearty co-operation of these two institutions, one British, one French, has made it possible for the A.E.F. to have a newspaper all its own. Unity of purpose among the representatives of three allied nations has succeeded in producing THE STARS AND STRIPES, even as it will succeed in winning the war.



—— "TO THE COLORS!" ——

With this issue THE STARS AND STRIPES reports for active service with the A. E. F. It is your paper, and has but one axe to grind—the axe which our Uncle Samuel is whetting on the grindstone for use upon the august necks of the Hapsburgs and the Hohenzollerns.

THE STARS AND STRIPES is unique in that every soldier purchaser, every soldier subscriber, is a stockholder and a member of the board of directors. It isn't being run for any individual's profit, and it serves no class but the fighting men in France who wear the olive drab and the forest green. Its profits go to the company funds of the soldier subscribers, and the staff of the paper isn't paid a sou.

If you don't find in this, your own weekly, the things in which you are particularly interested, write to the editors, and if it is humanly possibly they will dig up the stuff you want. There are so many of you over here now, and so many different sorts of you, that it is more than likely that some of your hobbies have been overlooked in this our first number. Let us know.

We want to hear from that artist in your outfit, that ex-newspaper reporter, that short story writer, that company "funny man," and that fellow who writes the verses. We want to hear from all of you—for THE STARS AND STRIPES is your paper, first, last and all the time; for you and for those of your friends and relatives to whom you will care to send it.

THE STARS AND STRIPES is up at the top o' the mast for the duration of the war. It will try to reach every one of you, every week—mud, shell-holes and fog notwithstanding. It will yield rights of the roadway only to troops and ambulances, food, ammunition and guns, and the paymaster's car. It has a big job ahead to prove worthy of its namesake, but, with the help of all of you, it will, in good old down east parlance, "do its gol-derndest" to deliver the goods. So—For-ward! MARCH!



—— FATHER ABRAHAM. ——

Just one hundred and nine years ago this coming February 12, there was born, in what was then the backwoods of Kentucky, the man whose career is most symbolic of the equality of opportunity afforded by our common country. By dint of hard work, laboring under the spell of poverty and of discouraging surroundings, Abraham Lincoln made himself fit to be nominated for and twice elected to the highest office within the gift of his countrymen. Not only that; he so qualified himself that he brought his country safely through the period which, next to the present one, proved to be the most crucial in its entire history.

He accomplished that tremendous task largely by the exercise of the most trying—and, to those who do not possess it, the most exasperating—of all the virtues: Patience. Patience which, moreover, was coupled with a rare sense of homely humor. When pettifogging scandal-mongers sneaked up to him with tales that Grant, his most successful commander, was drinking to excess, he merely smiled; said he wished he knew the brand of whisky Grant used, so he could try it on some of his other generals; kept Grant in command (for he had his own sources of information as to the general's conduct), and held his peace, trusting to time to vindicate his judgment, as it did amply.

Then, too, in his relations with the Copperheads, the pacifists of that day, who would have, as Horace Greeley put it, "let the erring sisters depart in peace," Lincoln practiced patience—patience mixed with a keen appreciation of the humorous side of their frantic meanderings. Through all the dark days of those long four years he kept his poise, kept his head, kept his nation straight in the true course; and yet, wracked with anxiety, battered by critics, he found time to laugh, and to show others the way to laugh.

Every American, at home or over here, would do well to take deep thought, on this coming anniversary, of what manner of man was "the prairie lawyer, master of us all." In spite of reverses to his armies, in spite of such criticism as never before or since was leveled at the head of a President, in spite of personal bereavement, in spite of the captiousness of his own chosen advisors, he saw his task through. To-day a united nation, united because he made it possible to be so, stands again in battle array to vindicate the principle which he held most dear: "That government of the people, by the people, for the people shall not perish from the earth."

It is our privilege, and our glory, as members of America's vanguard of liberty, so to fight, so to strive, that we may rightly be called the fellow countrymen of Father Abraham.



—— SQUARING THE TRIANGLE. ——

The decision of the American Army and Navy Y. M. C. A. in France not to accept as workers any more men who are eligible for military service will meet with the hearty approval of every member of the A. E. F. The stand of the Association in this regard will do away with one of the most frequently criticised features of its operation, and will awaken in the army a new confidence in the Y. M. C. A., and a belief in its sincerity and fairness.

The spectacle of a man of draft age, undeniably husky and fit for active service, cosily situated behind a counter during working hours, and when off duty enjoying all the privileges, and often wearing much of the insignia, of an officer when he had not been through the training and made the sacrifices to entitle him to such treatment, has more than once galled the feelings of the enlisted man, who, far less comfortably quartered, enjoying no privileges, knew that sooner or later he and his officers would have to take the chances "up there" while the "Y. M." man would remain in comparative safety behind. Such a spectacle inevitably led to the belief, in the minds of many men, that certain young gentlemen with "pull" were donning the Association uniform simply to escape the perils which all good men and true, wearing the khaki of the A. E. F., will sooner or later be called upon to brave. Naturally, such a belief lowered the standing of the Association in the eyes of the men actively engaged in preparation for the work of the fighting line.

THE STARS AND STRIPES feels sure that the Y. M. C. A. can recruit just as many "red-blooded" men, just as many "good mixers," among those who are older than thirty-one as among those of military age. What is more, it undoubtedly will draw from the older men a class more experienced in the handling of affairs, more accustomed to dealing with all sorts of their fellows. Viewed from any angle, the "Y. M." has taken a great step toward efficiency.



—— TALK AND RESOLUTIONS. ——

In a recent speech to representatives of the British trades unions, Premier Lloyd George of England said something which every American, both here and at home, would do well to bear in mind.

"If we are not prepared to fight, what sort of terms do you think we will get from Hindenburg? If you sent a delegation and said: 'We want you to clear out of Belgium', he would just mock you. He would say in his heart: 'You cannot turn me out of Belgium with trade union resolutions.' No; but I will tell you the answer you can give him: 'We can and will turn you out of Belgium with trade union guns and trade unionists behind them!'"

In other words, mere boastful talk will not lick Germany. Guns, and the men behind them are the only things that will do the job. There is only one way for us of the A. E. F.—the men behind the guns—to bring about the peace which the world craves, and that is by resolving to make every shot from those guns talk business.



—— STREET OF THE PRETTY HEART. ——

It might have been a street once, that shell-pocked thoroughfare, its cobbles piled awry, its curbing bitten out as though by the teeth of a stone-crunching giant. Scarcely one of the houses that lined it but had gaping shell-holes in walls, piles of clattered-down bricks before it, heaps of dust—all mute tokens of the devastation wrought by the enemy airmen during the raid of the night before. But, in the middle of that pathetic and ruined apology for a street the children were playing away, as merrily as if nothing at all had happened, shouting to one another in glee. And the name of that street—as the battered and half obliterated sign on the corner of the caved-in house at the end testified—was "Rue du Joli Coeur"—"Street of the Pretty Heart!"

The "Street of the Pretty Heart!" It is symbolic of the way France has borne her struggle, her devastation—with the heart-free, care-free spirit of childhood. One may crush, but not conquer, a race whose children can find happiness amid such surroundings, can abandon themselves to play under the very shadow of disaster. The "Street of the Pretty Heart"—in that title is the secret of triumph of the spirit over the powers of darkness, the secret of the triumph of the spirit of France over the malignant and evil genius of her arch enemy.



—— SINGING ON THE HIKE. ——

We do not sing "by order" in this man's army, but that is no reason why we should not sing—just because we are not ordered to do so. Singing can clip more kilos off a hike, take more lead out of a pack, drive more dampness out of the clothing than anything else. Also, it is good for the lungs. What is good for the lungs is good for the heart. And lungs and hearts in good condition are the best possible aids to the "guts" that will win this war.

We do not need to sing "highbrow stuff." We cannot imagine American troops going into battle as our Italian allies are said to, singing the national anthem, for the simple reason that we are not built that way, that's all. But we can sing something—even "All We Do Is Wait for Pay Day," or the famous ditty about the acrobatic grasshopper—and, if we do, we are more than apt to find ourselves feeling a lot better for it. Morever, it will help the fellow back in the line who, because of his cold, a badly slung pack, a tight pair of shoes, or, perhaps, bad news from home, is finding the going just a bit hard. It is the job of all of us who feel fit to do all we can, to boost along the fellow who may not feel quite so fit. It's team play that counts.

So start her off! Pitch it low enough so everybody can reach it, and keep it going. It is an unbeatable tonic for an unbeatable army.



—— SPIES AND ASSES. ——

Beware of the man who, no matter what his uniform, no matter what his nationality, comes to you with tales of Germany's invincibility, prophecies that "the war will end in a draw," and so forth. If he is saying such things on his own account, he is a German propagandist, a spy, a paid liar, and should be reported and punished as such. If he is repeating them second hand, he is nothing but an ass, a dupe of some real propagandist, and he should be reported and punished just the same.

Germany thinks we are a credulous lot of people. Old Bismarck himself once cynically remarked that there was a special Providence that watched out for plumb fools and Americans. More recently, Von Papen, whom our Government asked to have withdrawn from his post as German military attache at Washington, referred to us affectionately as "those idiotic Yankees." Consequently, Germany now hopes to weaken our resolution by sending among us these tale-bearers, these prophets of disaster, on the chance that some of us will be fools enough to bite.

The only sure and safe way to fool Germany in return is to report any man mouthing such pro-German sentiments, and report him at once. Your company commander will then see to it that further enemy activity by that man will be effectively stopped.



—— "GAS-ALERT!" ——

Great Britain is said to be making progress in the gentle art of extracting explosives from chestnuts. Chauncey Depew was master of that art long, long, ago.

* * * *

"Keep the Home Fires Burning" is very pretty, and all that, but "keep the billet fires aglow" is a lot more practical.

* * * *

Broadway, the papers tell us, is now dark after eleven o'clock at night, and thinks it a hardship. Shucks! We could mention some French cities that, until recently, were dark after four o'clock in the afternoon.

* * * *

It may be set down as a plain, unvarnished, Teutonic lie that fuel has become so scarce in the States that minstrel shows will soon be abolished by Federal order because of a lack of burnt cork.

* * * *

Just think! After the war is over it'll be like going from boyhood into manhood. We'll "graduate into long trousers" again.

* * * *

Over in the States, Mondays have been declared legal holidays because of the shortage of coal. But over here, with coal and wood even scarcer, we drill on washday, whether or no.

* * * *

What puzzles us is how Great Britain, on a diet of that warm beer, can continue to produce tanks that terrorize the Germans.

* * * *

Mrs. Margaret Deland says she wishes every soldier in the army might see "Damaged Goods." Shucks, Mrs. Deland; we all saw damaged goods when we got our belated Christmas packages.

* * * *

Mr. Charles M. Schwab has given up his private car for the duration of the war, and will, according to a despatch from the States, "do his travelling in the conventional day coach or Pullman." We, too, have given up our private cars, and now do our travelling in the conventional third-class carriages or "Hommes 40, Chevaux 8."

* * * *

Cheer up, lads! Pity the poor chaps back home who got married to escape the army! Between Hindenburg and a mother-in-law, pick Hindenburg for an enemy, every time.

* * * *

What has become of the old-fashioned trooper who used to be able to roll the makin's with one hand while holding in a bucking horse with the other? For that matter, what has become of the old-fashioned trooper?

* * * *

"Austria Suggests Treating with N.S."—Headline.

No thanks; not now. From past performance, the chance is too good that the drinks would be doped.

* * * *

Trench coats were worn by the patriotic Wall Street brokers on the New York stock exchange during that coal-less day; as if, no doubt, to imply that Wall Street is just as dangerous as the trenches. There isn't much difference: In one, you may get separated from your kale, and in the other you may get separated from your bean.

* * * *

"Hertling Thinks England Doesn't Wish for Peace."—Headline.

It all depends on what you mean by peace, Herr Chancellor!

* * * *

Now that the Chinese mission has officially visited the Belgian front, we suppose Hindenburg will take the queue and get out from in front of there.

* * * *

It is a singular tribute to the originality of the A.E.F. that not one of its members has tried to write home that ancient wheeze about "the French pheasants singing the Mayonnaise."

* * * *

The Kaiser said he didn't want any fuss made over his birthday this year. He even refrained from making a speech on that auspicious occasion. But, all the same, there are plenty of people who would dearly love to give him the fifty-odd spanks to which his age entitles him, and who, in time, will do so.

* * * *

Now that they've started with bread tickets in Paris, they might do well in some other parts of France to begin issuing rain checks.

* * * *

The peanut crop in the States is reported to be small this year, which probably accounts for the decline in the number of pacifists as well.







—— TO THE FOLKS BACK HOME ——

To the fathers and mothers, sisters and brothers, wives, sweethearts, and friends of the men in the American Expeditionary Forces:

We hear that you have been regaled with some alarming stories about us of the A.E.F. and our conduct here in France. In fact, some of those stories have been relayed to us, and if they weren't so far from the truth we might be inclined to get really mad. But knowing the authors of some of them—for some of the hysterical stripe have really been over here—our first inclination is to laugh.

But, after all, it's no laughing matter to be talked about behind our backs in such a reckless and irresponsible way by reckless and irresponsible people, though no doubt some of them have the best intentions in the world and think that they, and they alone, can save us. (They have probably told you that, and asked you to contribute money to their worthy cause, haven't they?) What hurts most, however, is the thought that, though we know you are loyal to us and have the firmest of faith in us, perhaps these dire tales may have caused you anxiety, may even have brought you to believe that perhaps, after all, we had become a bit neglectful of our trust; and that, so believing, you might have been sorely, and entirely unduly, distressed in spirit.

Be assured that these sensational stories are nothing but myths. Absolutely nothing else. And we have the facts to prove that they are. Listen:

The percentage of venereal disease in this army of yours is three-tenths of one per cent.—the smallest percentage on record for any army, or any civil population, in the world's history. It is a sober army, and a well-behaved one. The statistics in the possession of the Judge Advocate General's department prove that there have been, in proportion, fewer cases of drunkenness, fewer breaches of military discipline among its members than has been the case with any army whose records have been preserved.

Now, to take a specific instance. A certain self-constituted "board of morals" is quoted in a dispatch from the United States to the effect that 1,046 men of the "north-eastern States" were locked up in the guardhouse following their first pay day, for drunkenness.

That is the story; here are the facts:

Since the troops referred to as coming from the "north-eastern States" came to France, the total number of their men locked up in the guardhouse for all offenses—not for drunkenness alone, mind you—has been exactly 134 to date. In other words, the self-constituted champions of sobriety generously multiplied by eight the number of men imprisoned for all offenses—including as it does those punished for infractions of rules, insubordination and the like—and passed the enlarged figures on to you as representing the number of men locked up for drunkenness alone! No wonder you were scared—as they probably intended you should be.

Just to refute them again, here is a quotation from the report of a Protestant chaplain on active service with these same maligned troops from the "north-eastern States." Bear in mind, too, that this particular chaplain has been in the army but a short time, and therefore brings a fresh and impartial judgment to bear on the problems. This is what he says:

"In performing my priestly functions it has been my privilege to travel considerably among the troops, and it pleases me immensely to be able to state that I find moral conditions most satisfactory. The military authorities are vigilant in removing temptation. We have a clean army; and I am honestly convinced that the men in France are in less danger morally than they would be in service in their own country."

"The men in France are in less danger morally than they would be in service in their own country." That last clause is worth repetition. Ponder on that, dear people at home.

Here's something more. The Catholic chaplains attached to these same slandered troops declare that, out of thousands of men admitted to the confessional, only three have confessed to sins of any magnitude. A correspondent of an internationally-known daily newspaper, whose business it is to get facts and to report them accurately, adds this:

"I was in the only town of any size in the whole area occupied by the troops referred to on the night when they were first paid off in France. The majority of these men received from two to three months' pay, totalling in many cases $100 or more. The streets were crowded with soldiers buying up everything in sight, from candy and chocolate to clothing, but—it's the absolute truth—I did not see a single drunken soldier; while the provost guard records show the smallest number of arrests. Since then I have seen a good deal of the troops referred to as 'North-Eastern,' as a result of which I can unhesitatingly state that if the troops training in the United States conduct themselves as well, they're doing nobly."

Finally, the commanding officer of this same body of men—and our commanding officers are our severest critics and also our only really competent ones—volunteers this, by way of clinching the argument:

"I never knew any army garrison in the United States before the war to have anything like so good a record."

As to conditions in general, both Allied and neutral military observers have expressed themselves as astonished at the remarkably good behavior of this army of yours. The world does move. Armies no longer live by forage, loot, and pillage; but even at that, this pay-as-you-go, behave-as-you-go American Army has been a revelation to our European Allies.

Take it all in all, these American Expeditionary Forces constitute an army which is in every way a worthy successor to the first army of liberty, whose commander was George Washington. It is proud of its heritage, proud of you people at home who are supporting it and who are backing it with your labor, your money, your hopes, and your prayers, proud of the Government that sped it on its way overseas, proud of the cause for which it is fighting—the greatest cause which any army was ever called upon to champion. It would rather rot under the soil of France than to do anything which would cast discredit on the homes it left, which would impugn in any way the good name of the great people from whom it was recruited.

Bear all this in mind, good people back in God's country, if you hear any more stories about us made up out of the same whole cloth. If by any chance any of you should hesitate to believe us, write to our commanders, our chaplains, our doctors—anybody in authority. They will back us to the limit—and we, for our part, will guarantee to come home to you clean in body, exalted in mind and heart, and with the record behind us of a man's size job manfully done.



—— MENTIONED IN ORDERS ——

NEW HEADGEAR.

The "Oversea Cap," the latest thing in military headgear, has been officially adopted as part of the uniform for officers, soldiers and other uniformed members of the A.E.F. For the latter two classes, the cap will be of 20 ounce olive drab cloth, or perhaps a little heavier. There will be no show of coloring on the cap, and the stiffening of the flap will be the same color as the cap itself. When the cap is issued to a man, he will be expected to turn in his service hat to nearest Quartermaster depot.

The officers' Overseas cap will be the same model as that worn by the men, but the material will be that of the officers' uniform. For officers other than general officers, the stiffening at the edge of the flap will be the same color as the arm of the service to which the officer belongs, and will project far enough above the edge of the flap to give the appearance of piping when the cap is worn with the flap up. General officers will have caps with stiffening of the same color as the cap cloth itself, with a strip of gold braid an eighth of an inch to a quarter of an inch from the outside of the flap.

Except where the helmet is prescribed, officers actually commanding troops will wear the Oversea cap. At other times the Oversea or the service cap is optional.

TRENCH UNIFORMS.

Officers are also authorized to wear the so-called trench coat, with the insignia of rank on the shoulder. This may also be worn on the raincoat. Officers serving in the Zone of Advance will be issued all articles of the enlisted man's uniform and equipment they need; and, when their duty in the trenches is over, they will return all such articles.

NEATNESS IN DRESS.

In connection with these new regulations concerning clothing, it is strictly laid down that every effort must be made at all times by the officers and men of the A.E.F. to present a neat and soldierly appearance. When men are not actually engaged on field service, it is directed that uniforms will be pressed and brushed, and that belts, leggings, shoes, boots, and brasses will be cleaned and polished. Even when on active service, it is required that advantage be taken of every opportunity to clean uniforms and equipment.

"No soldier," says the order, "will be permitted to leave his command on pass unless he presents a neat and soldierly appearance, which will be determined at an inspection by an officer."

AMBULANCE VENTILATION.

Ford ambulances in the service of the A.E.F. are to be bored with one inch auger holes at three-inch intervals in double rows through the wooden front just at the driver's back and immediately beneath the roof; in the tail-board, also, there will be fifteen holes. This is to secure proper ventilation, as deaths have been known to occur, in other Allied services, within the enclosed bodies of the ambulances which are equipped with exhaust gas heaters. Ambulance drivers are cautioned to investigate the condition of their passengers at five-minute intervals.

TYPHOID PROPHYLAXIS.

Any men in the A.E.F. who have not as yet taken typhoid prophylaxis will be required to do so in the near future; and, in all cases where it is shown that complete protective measures have not been taken, the surgeon will administer triple vaccine prophylaxis.

RED CROSS SEARCHERS.

One "searcher" of the American Red Cross may be attached to each statistical section of the Adjutant-General's department throughout the A.E.F. and in each hospital sub-section, except in field hospitals. Information as to casualties, etc., will be furnished freely to Red Cross searchers subject to the necessary restrictions as to what may be forwarded, and at what times.

MORE RATIONS.

The meat, coffee and sugar rations of troops engaged in work involving hard manual labor of eight hours or more a day will be increased 25 per cent. up to the end of March. This holds true in future from November to March, inclusive.

RECKLESS DRIVING.

Reckless driving by chauffeurs is frowned upon severely in General Orders No. 11. In consequence of past accidents, it is now required that every driver of an A.E.F. motor vehicle which sustains a collision with any French vehicle or person, or kills or injures a domestic animal, will prepare a report on Form No. 124, Q.M.M.T.S., immediately after the collision and before resuming his journey. It is impressed upon the drivers that this must be done in every case, regardless of how trivial the injury may appear to be. The driver, after making out his report, will deliver it to his immediate commanding officer with the least possible delay. Court-martial proceedings must, in every case, be instituted against any driver who fails to render such a report immediately upon return to his station.

HARD LIQUORS.

Soldiers are forbidden either to buy or accept as gifts from the French, any whisky, brandy, champagne, or, in fact, any spirituous liquors. Commanding officers are charged with the duty of seeing that all drinking places where the alcoholic liquors thus named are sold are designated as "off limits." They are also directed to use every endeavor to limit to the lowest possible number the places where intoxicants are sold, and to assist the French authorities in locating non-licensed resorts.



—— RAILROADING AT THE FRONT IS NO PICNIC —— Engineer of Big Lizzie Takes Reporter for a Ride and Explains a Few Professional Difficulties. —— BOCHE TRIES TO BEAN HIM WITH BOMBS. —— Problems of Garb, Breakfast and Tobacco Happily Solved by "System D." ——

"Casey Jones—mounted up the cabin Casey Jones—with his orders in his hand!"

The singer, to judge from the way he rolled his r's, ought to have come from somewhere out in the perrrarrrie country of North America; but to judge from his costume, he might have come from about anywhere. He wore the red fez of the Algerian troops, the tunic of his Britannic Majesty's fighting forces, the horizon-blue slicker of the Armee de France, but his underpinning, as well as his voice, was downright United States. Only the khaki trousers and canvas leggins identified him, in part, at least, as a member of an American Railroad Engineers' Regiment.

"Up to look us over, are you?" he inquired, grinning genially at the STARS AND STRIPES reporter who had made his way up right behind the fighting lines, to see the engineers at their work of running supply trains for the French. "Well, sonny, take a good look. We ain't much on clothes"—indicating his motley garments—"but believe me, bo, we're there on work! Y'see, the Boche's birdies make things pretty hot for us at times, flyin' over our perfectly good right of way and tryin' to beat us where the stack shows up bright in the dark. So we have to lay over until they fly back, and then git out and hustle to keep things moving som'ers near on schedule. At that, day before yest'day, we had every blooming train on time.

The Workings of System D.

"These duds"—indicating his international collection of garments—"I know they look funny, but what can a man do? Well, it all works out right enough by what the French call 'System D'—shift for yourself. We start out under the U.S., and we draw some—just some—clothes from them. Then they turn us over to the French gov'ment to run this here line up to the front, see? French gov'ment gives us more clothes—some. Then along come some Canucks—damn decent chaps, too, and more like Americans than anything else they've got over here—and they want to trade off with us for some stuff. That's where the coat come from. This red dicer"—pointing to the fez—"I copped off'n a nigger. Funny kind of coon he was, too; couldn't talk English, only French; and we had to teach him how to shoot crap!

"But we got three complete Uncle Sam uniforms, in three different sizes, for the use of the whole outfit. Y'see, three men from our comp'ny get leave in Paree every week, and they just nachhully got to look right when they go down there. So they match, and the odd man has the pick of the three suits, so's he can take the one that fits him. Then the other two flip up, and the guy that don't call it has to take what's left. Gen'rally he's outer luck.

"Look at this engine o' mine," continued the engineer, pointing to the big Baldwin locomotive beside him. "Is't she a pippin, though? These little French ones look like fleas up alongside an elephant aside of her. They're forty-five like her in the same lot, bought by the French for $45,000 a throw, and turned out at the works in Philly in twenty days. They're owned by the French now, but they've got the good old 'U.S.A.' right up there on the water-tender. See it?" He obliged with his flashlight. "Pull? They can handle 166,000 pounds without batting an eye!

Misses the Old Bell.

"Only trouble is," he explained, "we haven't got any spare parts for her, not even spare valves, she was rushed over here in such a hurry. But at that, she's got it over anything that ever sailed over this line before. Why, when we first got here some of the French lines were using old engines that had been made in Germany in 1856. 'Sfact! One of ours, like Big Lizzie here, can do the work of three of the little fellers; and, while I'm not the one to say it, perhaps, our regiment has done the work of an outfit two and a half times as big since it came here.

"Climb up alongside of me in the cab," the engineer invited, "and we'll give her a pull up the line to the next station." The reporter complied, and soon his ears were startled with the long blast of a real American whistle. "Sounds like the real thing, doesn't it?" beamed his guide. "Beats those little peanut whistles they've got on the little French dinkeys. Only thing the boys miss is pulling the old bell, but they can't do it here. Bells in this country are only used for church and for gas alarms. And it bothers 'em a bit the different signals they've got to learn: One to start, two blasts to stop, and eight for a grade crossing. Whew! How much chance would we have to blow eight for a crossing in the States and let anything get out of the way?"

Every Station Is a Block.

Up grade Big Lizzie puffed, and pulled away with a right good will, scuttling around the many curves in the road as if she were on a dance floor. Military railroads have to have plenty of curves, so the Boche airplanes cannot follow them too closely. At the next station the reporter had a chance to examine the office of the Illinois Central agent, all decorated with shells picked up on the famous battlefields at the head of the line, and to see the bunk house and restaurant for the men who lay over there. Every station on the line—there are seven—has an American station master, and all the yards have American yard-masters and American switchmen. There is, strictly speaking, no block system in France, but each station is supposed to be the boundary of a block, and a train simply stays in one station until the one ahead is clear.

"Want some hot water?" queried the engineer of an American who, carrying a big tank, came up to the engine at one of the stations. "All right: it isn't Saturday night yet, but over here you've got to wash while the washing's good. Help yourself out of the engine!" And the American did—with thanks.

The engineer paused a moment to scan the sky. "Pretty dark for the Boches to be out," he remarked. "First night out we were chased by one of 'em in a machine, but we got in all right. That's why we run without lights now, and make the crew use flashlights instead of lanterns. Right over there"—pointing to the side of the roadbed, in the snow—"a 'flyin' Dutchman' came down last week, after being chased by a French plane. His chassis was all riddled with bullets till it looked like Cook's strainer, and his wings were bent till they looked like corkscrews. When they came up to look at the machine, they found the pilot's right body in it, burnt just like a strip o' bacon that's been left on the stove too long. They found the carcass of the officer that was with him about 500 yards away, in the woods somewhere. He must have got a helluva toss when he went.

In Luck on Tobacco.

"Like it?" He repeated the reporter's question. "Like it? Sure; who wouldn't? Only thing is, we're loaned to the French army, as I told you, and the French never have learnt how to cook a man's size breakfast. Now, how in the name of time can a railroad man do a day's work when he begins it on nothin' but coffee and a hunk of sour bread? But we've been runnin in luck lately, buyin eggs and things off the people along the line, and gettin' a little stuff from the U.S.Q.M. now and then, so we make out pretty well. The only thing that got our goat was when they offered us the French tobacco ration—seein' as we were in their army, they thought we were entitled to it. We took one whiff apiece—and then we said 'Nix!' Since Christmas, though, we've come into luck," he added, pulling a big hunk of long-cut out of his Canadian blouse. "Have a chew?

"Danger? Hell! What'd we come over for, a Sunday school picnic? No, when you come right down to it there isn't much. If we get the tip, we just crawl into the dugouts along the road, and shuffle the pasteboards until we get the signal that the party is over. I've had livelier times 'n this out west, with washouts and wrecks and beatin' off a crowd of greasers from the tracks when they went wild, many a time. No, sir, war hasn't got much new in the movie thrill line for a railroad man!"



—— AH! THOSE FRENCH! ——

"Mademoiselle, tell me: What is the difference between you and a major-general?"

"Mais, oui, m'sieur, there are many differences; which one does m'sieur mean?"



"Ah, Mademoiselle, the general, he has stars upon his shoulders; but you—you, mademoiselle, have the stars in your eyes!"



—— SHAVING IN FRANCE. ——

The order says, "Shave every other day." Now you, personally, may need to shave every day; or you may need to shave as often as twice a day; or, again, you may be one of those lucky and youthful souls who really don't need to shave oftener than once a week. But, as the order makes the every-other-day shave obligatory, you, no matter what classification you may fall under, decide to compromise on the every-other-day shave. In that way, and in that way only, can discipline be maintained and a pleasing variety of growths up and down the comp'ny front be secured.

The order being such as it is, you dispense with washing your face every day. You wash your face on your non-shaving day, and on your shaving day you let the shave take the place of the wash. To be sure, if you are a generous latherer you have to wash your face all over, including the remote portions behind the ears, after you get through shaving; but, being anxious to save time and economize water—thus living up to another order—you never count that in as a real wash. When writing home, you say simply that you wash and shave on alternate days.

A Use for Helmets.

To begin the shaving process, you secure a basin full or a tin helmet full of water—such water as the countryside affords. Usually it is dirty; sometimes in the regions bordering on what has been in German hands since 1914, it minutely resembles the drink that Gunga Dhin brought to his suffering Tommy friend. You remember:

"It was crawly and it stunk."

At that, you can't blame it for being crawly and stinking if it had been anywhere near the Boche.

If you are in billets or barracks, and there is a stove therein both handy and going, and if all the epicures and snappy dressers in the squad are not trying to toast their bread or thaw out their shoes or dry their socks on top of it at the same time, you may be allowed to heat your shaving water—if it can be called water—on said stove. If you are allowed to—which again is doubtful—you are generally saddled with the job of being squad stove-stoker for the rest of the day. This is a confining occupation, and hard on the eyes.

If, however, you are in neither billets nor barracks, but in the open somewhere or if there is no fire in the stove, or, if somebody else has got first licks at it, and you don't fit with the cook of the mess sergeant so as to be able to borrow a cup of hot water out of the coffee tank—why, there is nothing left to do but shave in cold water. This is hard on the face, the temper and the commandment against cussing. Also, if you neglected to import your shaving soap from the States and had to buy it over here, it may mean that you are out of luck on lather.

Anyway, after quite a while of fussing around, you get started. You smear your face with something approaching lather if you've got hot water, with a sticky, milky substance that resembles, more than anything else, a coating of lumpy office paste. This done, and rubbed in a bit around the corners, you begin to hoe.

Indoor vs. Outdoor Shaving.

In billet shaving, somebody is always trying to climb into the bunk above over your slightly bent back while you shave—for it is impossible to get your little trench mirror directly in front of your face while you are in an upright position. In outdoor shaving—usually performed in the middle of a village square, near the town fountain—one is invariably bumped from behind by one of the lowing kine or frolicsome colts peculiar to the region; to say nothing of a stray auto truck or ambulance which may have broken loose from its moorings. These gentle digs, of course, produce far less gentle digs in one's countenance. In this way, America's soldiers, long before they reach the front, are inured to the sight of blood.

After you have scraped off a sufficient amount of beard to show a sufficient amount of skin to convince the Top, when he eyes you over, that you have actually shaved, you shake the lather off your razor and brush, dab what is left of the original water over the torn parts of your face, seize the opportunity, while you have the mirror before you, of combing your hair with your fingernails, and button your shirt collar. The performance concluded, you are good for forty-eight hours more, having a perfect alibi if anyone comments on your facial growth. You are not, however, in any condition to attend a revival meeting or to bless the power-that-be who condemned you to having to shave in France.



—— CRUSADERS. ——

Richard Coeur de Lion was a soldier and a king; He carried lots of hefty tools with which his foes to bing; He cased himself in armor tough—neck, shoulder, waist, and knee: But Richard, old Coeur de Lion, didn't have a thing on me.

For while old Coeur de Lion may have worn an iron casque, He never had to tote around an English gas-proof mask; He never galled himself with packs that weigh about a ton, Nor—lucky Richard—did he have to clean a beastly gun.

'Tis true he wore a helmet to protect himself from boulders, But then, he had good rest for it upon his spacious shoulders; While my tin hat is balanced on the peak of my bare dome, And after marching with it—gee! I wish that I were home!

His feet were cased in metal shoes, in length about a yard, Which, since they were so big, I bet did not go on as hard As Uncle Sam'yal's dancing pumps that freeze so stiff at night That donning them at reveille is sure an awful fright.

He never had to pull a Ford from out of muddy ruts— Although his breastplate warded spears from off his royal guts, His Nibs was never forced to face the fire of "forty-twos" And tear gas would have given him an awful case of blues.

He always rode a charger, while I travel on shanks' mare; He messed on wine and venison; I eat far humbler fare. I'll grant he was some fencer with his doughty snickersnee, But Richard Coeur de Lion didn't have a thing on me!



—— YES, THEY'RE A FEW. ——

Green Sentry: "Turn out the guard—Officer of the Day!"

(Officer of the Day promptly salutes, indicating, "As you were!")

Green Sentry: "Never mind the Officer of the Day!"



—— FASHION HINTS FOR DOUGHBOYS —— By BRAN MASH. ——

Overcoats are being worn much shorter this season, by request.



The campaign hat, while still de rigueur for the less formal functions of army society, such as reveille and mess, is rapidly going out of date. It is said on excellent authority that it will soon be supplanted by a chapeau closely resembling the cocked hat worn by certain goodly gentlemen of Boston and vicinity during skirmish drill at Lexington and Concord, Mass. The portrait shown herewith depicts one of the makeshifts now much in vogue.

Rubber boots are much the rage at this season of the year. While not exactly suited to town wear, and while the more conservative dressers still refuse to be seen in them at afternoon-tea, they are speedily adjusted and thus enjoy great popularity among those who are in the habit of "just making" reveille.

Slickers are, at present writing, in great demand among the members of the younger army set. Those who were farsighted enough to procure the heavy black variety when it was issued last fall are counting themselves more fortunate than their friends who chose the lighter, but colder, blue or drab garment.

The tin brown derby is, after all, the most serviceable headgear for all-around wear in the war zone. It should be worn on all formal occasions, particularly when nearing the Boches' reception line. When in doubt as to the propriety of wearing it, it is always well to remember that it is better to err on the side of safety.



The face muffler—either English or French design—is another sine qua non for all formal occasions, particularly at soirees and dansants near the first line. In fact, some of the more careless dressers who have neglected to provide themselves with it have suffered severely, and been roundly snubbed. While it is at best an ugly piece of facegear and extremely difficult for the uninitiated to adjust correctly, its intricacies should be mastered at the earliest opportunity by those having business "up front."

The knit sock, home made preferred, is indispensable for wear inside the regulation field shoe during all formal and informal promenades. It is a sign of gaucherie, however, to allow the top of either sock to protrude above the puttee or legging. Care should be taken that the socks fit the feet as snugly as possible, else ugly bunches will form at the heels and toes, thus robbing the gentle art of walking of all the pleasure which Henry Ford put into it.

The web belt, worn on most formal occasions, should always be well filled when the wearer contemplates a business trip. Cautious dressers do well to adjust the belt so that the pistol holster hangs within easy reach of the right hand.

Spiral puttees have advanced so far in popular favour that they are now being issued for general wear by such a conservative (but ever reliable) gent's furnishing house as the U.S.Q.M.C.D. They are considered warmer than the old-style canvas leggings, although, as they take longer to put on, they are rather frowned upon by the more hasty dressers. They should be tightly wrapped if the wearer possesses a shapely lower limb; but tight wrapping is apt to result in tired feet at the end of a promenade of any duration.



The regulation field shoe has been designated the correct footwear for business and informal occasions. Care should be taken to secure sizes which will admit of the entrance of the wearer's feet (one in each shoe) when encased in at least two pairs of socks. Although numerous complaints have been lodged against the hobnails which infest the soles of these shoes, it may be said in extenuation that they are indispensable for marching along slippery roads, and also extremely useful when the wearer is engaged in kicking Germans in the face.

The Sam Browne belt is worn exclusively by officers serving with the American Expeditionary Forces—that is, in the American Army. It is a natty leather ornament, and much sought after. It is, in fact, the last word—dernier cri—in gentlemanly attire.



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—— MY FIRST NIGHT IN THE ARMY. ——

I'm there with two thin blankets, As thin as a slice of ham, A German spy was likely the guy Who made them for Uncle Sam. How did I sleep? Don't kid me— My bed-tick's filled with straw, And lumps and humps and big fat bumps That pinched till I was raw.

Me and my two thin blankets As thin as my last thin dime, As thin, I guess, as a chorus girl's dress, Well, I had a dandy time. I'd pull 'em up from the bottom, Whenever I started to sneeze, A couple of yanks to cover my shanks, And then how my "dogs" did freeze.

You could use 'em for porous plasters, Or maybe to strain the soup,— My pillows my shoes when I tried to snooze— And I've chilblains, a cough and croup.

Me and my two thin blankets, Bundled up under my chin; Yes, a German spy was likely the guy, And—MY—but they were thin.



AMERICAN EYE CLASSES

ED. B. Meyrowitz

OPTICIAN

LONDON PARIS 1A, Old Bond St. 3, Rue Scribe.



—— HEARD IN THE CAFE. ——

"So you were down at El Paso the same time we were? Bum town, wasn't it?"

"Let's see,—I knew a lad out in Kansas City and his name was—"

"No, I haven't been up in Alaska since 1908, but there's a guy in our comp'ny who—"

"By the way, where did you say you came from in New Hampshire?"

"Sure enough. We hung around there at Tampa until—"

"Yes, I got a paper from my home town in Nevada that said—"

And, in spite of talk like that, there are some people back home that think their own communities' men are doing all the fighting.



—— CAN YOU BLAME HER? ——

Teacher in French School: "Marie, what is the national anthem of La Patrie?"

Little Marie: "La Marseillaise."

Teacher: "Good! Now, the national air of England?"

Little Marie: "God Save the King."

Teacher: "Very good, mon enfant! Now, the national air of the United States?"

Little Marie: "Certainement! It is 'Hail, Hail, the Gang's All Here!'"



—— GOOD ENOUGH FOR HIM. ——

"Well, Bill, how are you getting along with your French?"

"Fine! I know the words for wood, straw, beefsteak and suds; what more do I want to get by with?"



—— SUCH IS FAME! ——

"Jake, who's this Lord Reading that's the new British Ambassador to the States?"

"Reading? Say, ain't he the guy that run a railroad somewhere in Pennsylvania?"



English and American

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LIKE A LETTER FROM HOME.

That is the purpose we hope to serve with

THE STARS AND STRIPES

IF YOU ARE A WRITER: Send us Copy.

IF YOU ARE AN ARTIST: Send us Pictures.

IF YOU ARE A HUSTLER: Get your captain to allow you to help us build up a 100 per cent. circulation and put cash in your company funds through subscriptions and advertising. There are no profits in THE STARS AND STRIPES for anyone but its soldier subscribers.

THIS IS YOUR PAPER IN EVERY SENSE. LEND A HAND.

Address all communications to THE STARS AND STRIPES, Press Division, G.H.Q., A.E.F., France.



ALLIES THE FAVORITES IN BETTING ODDS ON BIG WORLD'S SERIES



—— KID JOHNSON LOSES BELT BY A KNOCKOUT —— Fighting Fireman from the Q.M.C. Defeats Champion in One Round. —— By BRITT. ——

An extra long khaki-colored canvas belt, regulation, was turned over this week to Judson C. Pewther, Q.M.C., by Kid Johnson, of the —th Infantry, following a two minute ceremony which ended in a knockout. Which is to say, "Charlie, the Fighting Fireman," is being hailed as the new heavyweight champion of G.H.Q., A.E.F.

Kid Johnson had whipped everyone in sight at G.H.Q., and was being touted as the champion of Amex forces. He was billed to fight both Pewther and a French heavyweight aspirant the same evening. He had to disappoint the Frenchman—fini, monsieur, FEENISHED.

Charlie, ostensibly a modest and unassuming fireman in the offices of the Intelligence Section, General Staff, is now recognized as one of the best fighting units in the A.E.F. Report has it that he was one of the best bets on the Border, where he served in the Body Snatchers—with a long string of ring victories to his credit. He had been out of the boxing game for nearly three years, having married in the interim, but no one disputes the fact that he made a great comeback.

Right Hook Turns the Trick.

The scrap took place before a crowded house. The two heavy-weights were evenly matched in height and weight.

Johnson started like all champions, confidently, and let loose a strip of rattling lefts. Charlie faced the fusillade and coolly replied with several vicious upper-cuts reminiscent of Border days. With frequent jabs he rocked the champion's head, and the crowd roared.

He met Johnson's rushes with a persistent left. The champion was fighting mad and rushed in for a cleanup. As he did so, he uncovered. The opening was small but sufficient. Charlie countered with his left, then sent a swift right hook to the jaw. Johnson wilted. Three knockdowns followed. Then the champion took the count.

Fighting Charlie was on the job at Headquarters next morning as usual, showing no marks of the encounter. The petites demoiselles, over whom Charlie exercises daily authority, were dumbfounded to learn that their boss was a bruiser. But it is significant that the fires in the Intelligence Section to-day are burning brighter than ever.

New Champion Is Modest.

Pewther was averse to talking about himself, but he confessed to twenty-nine years and claimed Portland, Ore., as his home. A representative of THE STARS AND STRIPES found him the afternoon after the fight seated on a coal-box reading his favorite dime novel—in which he finds a laugh in every line—and wearing the same sized hat.

"I wouldn't have broken into the game again," he declared, "but I felt that I couldn't stand by and hear the Johnson coterie putting over their sweeping challenges. It was all right to challenge the crowd, but when all the soldiers of the A. E. F. were included I figured it was up to me to register a kerplunk for the Q.M. Johnson would have been champion yet if he hadn't tried to take in so much territory. I'm satisfied to be champion, and let it go at that. But if there's anyone else who wants the title he can have it—unless there's something substantial in it."

Which indicates there may be something doing, as report has it that the doughboys don't intend to let the Q.M. man walk off with the championship.



—— A PINCH HITTER IN KHAKI. ——

Lank used to be something of a baseball player. In fact he's still on the rolls of a certain National League club and back in 1914 it was Lank's mighty swatting that won the world's championship for his team.

Next to General Pershing himself and a few other generals, Lank is about the most popular soldier in France. When his regiment—once of the National Guard—comes swinging down the pike the sidelines are jammed with other soldiers who crane their necks to get a peek at him.

Lank always carries the colors. He's now color-sergeant.

"So that fella's Lank, the great ball player," you can hear one doughboy say to another. "Well, I'll be doggonned. Looks just like any other soldier, don't he?"

"What you expect to see?" will ask a soldier who has worshipped Lank's batting average for lo! these many years. "Didja expect to see a fella wearin' a baseball uniform and carryin' a bat over his shoulder? Sure, that's Lank. Hello, Lank, howja like soldiering?"

Lank will look out of the corner of his eye and then, sure that no officer is looking, reply out of the corner of his mouth:

"We're on to the Kaiser's curves, boys. We'll hit everything those Huns pitch for home runs. No strike outs in this game!"

Lank is the life of his regiment. In his "stove league" this Winter he has organized all kinds of baseball leagues and next Spring he's going to lead a championship team against all soldier comers.

If General Pershing isn't too busy Lank will try and get him to umpire some afternoon.



—— STRAY SHOTS. ——

So Grover Alexander has been drafted? Some squad is going to have a nifty hand grenade tosser to its credit, eh, what?

——

Wonder if John L., when he arrived at the pearly gates and St. Peter asked his name, gave his customary reply of, "Yours truly, John L. Sullivan?" If he did, we bet he walked right on in while the good saint was still trying to figure it out.

——

Speaking of the great John L., we suppose that "Handsome Jim" Corbett is the only old time champion who can at all aspire to Sullivan's place in public esteem.

——

We seem to know the tune of this anonymous contribution, but we never have heard these words before:

We're in the trenches now, The slacker milks the cow, And the son of a Hun Must skeedaddle and run, For we're in the trenches now.



—— FOR A LIVE SPORT PAGE. ——

THIS IS poor apology for

* * *

A LIVE SPORT page but it

* * *

MAKES A beginning and

* * *

SOMEBODY had to do it

* * *

AND I was the goat but

* * *

WITH YOUR help we'll

* * *

DO BETTER next time if you

* * *

WRITE US some notes from

* * *

YOUR CAMP and send us

* * *

SOME VERSES for

* * *

ONE GUY can't handle this

* * *

ALL himself and

* * *

ANYBODY could do the job

* * *

BETTER than I can you know

* * *

WE WANT to find a

* * *

REAL SPORTING editor somewhere

* * *

AND WISH this job

* * *

OFF ON him and then

* * *

WE'LL buy a cable from

* * *

BACK home and tell him

* * *

TO HOP to it.

C. P. C.



—— INDOOR SPORTS ——

SATURDAY NIGHT.

First you take a basin, Place it on the stove, Wait about an hour or so, Shoo away the drove Of your jeering billet mates Betting you won't dare; Then you spread a slicker On the floor with care.

Next you doff your O. D., And your undershirt. Wrap a towel 'round your waist, Wrestle with the dirt; Do not get the sponge too wet— Little drops will trickle Down a soldier's trouser legs— Golly! How they tickle!

Then you clothe yourself again— That is, to the belt; Strip off boots and putts and trou, Socks—right to the pelt; Send the gooseflesh quivering Up and down your limbs— Gosh! You aren't in quite the mood For singing gospel hymns.

Then you wash, and wash and wash, Dry yourself once more, Put on all your clothes again, Go to bed and snore, Wake up at the bugle's call With a cold, and sore Truly, baths in France are—well, What Sherman said of war!

FOOLING THE FLEA.

You'll march in the flea parade and be glad of the chance after you've lived a week in an old French sheep shed.

"Say, I'll be glad to get back to the mosquitoes," said a young hand-grenadier from Dallas, Tex., as he dumped his "other clothes" in the flea-soup cauldron. "These babies chew you to death day and night. A mosquito's a night-rider only."

The line forms on the right of the cook-shack. The cooks build big fires out in the open and set out great kettles of water. When the water begins to boil the parade begins, each man dumping in his flea-infested clothing—uniform, socks, underwear, wristlets and blankets. The cooks keep the fires stoked up with wood and the garments boil for a solid hour.

Then the men form another line and collect their stuff. They wring out the clothes the best they can and then sit down to "pick 'em off."

"They're fast little devils most usually," said the Dallas man, "but the sudden shock from warm water to cold air makes them stiff, and you can catch 'em easy."

The A. E. F.'s living in sheep barns simply can't keep clear of the things. They're in the rafters, in the hay, and in the planks. Weekly boiling of clothing only gives a short relief.

Really they aren't fleas at all, but a form of sheep tick. But they don't distinguish between sheep and American soldiers.

"BUTTON, BUTTON."

The Army gets some of its best ideas about equipment from the soldiers who have to use it.

Here's an idea, making for efficiency and convenience, which comes from an Omaha boy in the ranks. He says:

"Why don't they put bachelor buttons on our uniforms and overcoats? I've got a 'housewife' in my kit, but I'm working from 6.15 in the morning until 5 o'clock at night, and what little leisure I get I'd like to spend in the Y.M.C.A. playing the phonograph or shooting pool.

"And anyway, if I've got to do my sewing in the barn I live in, I might as well not try at all. My fingers are so numb the minute I take off my mitts that I couldn't thread a needle."

Not only that, said the Omaha soldier, but you usually find you haven't any thread in your "housewife."

There seems to be something in favor of bachelor buttons, especially since the people who sew the buttons on new uniforms and coats always do a poor job.



—— YES, HOW DO THEY? ——

Private Pat: "Mike, what th' hell kind of fish be them ye're eatin'?"

Corporal Mike: "Hush, Pat; don't be disthplayin' yer ignorance—the ould Frinch la-ady might hear yeze! Thim's sairdeens!"

Pat: "Sairdeens, is ut? They're a small fish, ain't they? An' where, pray tell, do they grow?"

Mike: "Pat, I'm asthounded at yer ignorance of gogerfy! Thim little fish grow in the Atla-antic Ocean, the Pacific Ocean, the Injun Ocean, the Airctic Ocean, an'—oh, in all them oceans. An' the big fish, such as the whale, the halleybut, the shairk, an' all o' thim, they live off'n eatin' th' sairdeens!"

Pat: "They do, do they Mike? Thin phwaht I'd like to know is how th' hell do they iver open the box?"



—— SUPPLIES FIRST AID TO CHILLY AIRMEN —— Red Cross Canteen Serves 2000 Sandwiches and Mugs of Coffee Daily. ——

The Red Cross does a lot of work over here. Its activities in taking care of the population of the Hun-devastated districts, in clothing and feeding the ever-increasing hordes of refugees that pour in over the Swiss frontier, in supplying French and American military hospitals and in furnishing the American forces with auxiliary clothing are well known. It is not known, however, that, somewhere in that nebulous region known as somewhere in France, the Red Cross has gone in a bit for what has generally been considered the Y. M. C. A.'s own particular game—that of running the festive army canteen.

So far as can be found out at present writing, this canteen is the only one operated by the Red Cross in France. It is run primarily for the benefit of the young American aviators whose training station is hard by. And, because aviators, breathing rarer and higher ozone than most of the rest of us, are in consequence always as hungry as kites and cormorants, this particular Red Cross canteen does a rushing business.

It is situated in a long barrack-like building of the familiar type, which is partitioned off into a social room and a combination officers' dining room and a storeroom kitchen. The kitchen—as always in anything pertaining to the army—is the all-important part. This kitchen is noteworthy for two things: It has a real stand-up-and-sit-up lunch counter, and its products are cooked and served by the deft hands of American women.

Girls Worked All Night.

No dinners are served at this canteen for the airmen. Those favors are reserved for the convalescents in the hospital nearby. But the airmen are dropping in all the time for sandwiches and hot coffee, particularly after coming down, chilled and chattering, from a flight into the upper regions of the sky. If they don't drop in to get warmed up in that fashion, they know they are in for a scolding by the head of the canteen, an Englishwoman possessed of all an American mother's motherly instincts and all of the English army's ideals of discipline.

There was one night that the little Red Cross canteen was put to a severe test. Eighteen hundred Americans arrived at the aviation camp after a thirty-hour trip punctuated by no saving hot meal. The manager-matron and her girl helpers, however, stayed up nearly all night, minting hot coffee and sandwiches so that the hardships of sleeping on the cold bare ground of the hangars was somewhat mitigated for the 1,800 unfortunates.

A Repair Shop For Clothes.

In all the canteen disburses about 2,000 sandwiches a day, with mugs of coffee to match. In addition to that, its workers, equipped with Norwegian fireless cookers, sally forth to the aviation fields in the mornings long before dawn so that the men who are going up may have something warm to eat and drink to fortify them against the cold. Not content with doing that for their charges the Red Cross people soon hope to have enough workers to take care of mending the aviators' clothes, for aviators have to wear lots of clothes, and, when they land in trees, in barbed wire, on stone walls and so forth, their clothes suffer in consequence. A doughboy, who wears one suit at a time, doesn't have a hard job keeping it in order; but an aviator with heaven knows how many layers of clothes—oh, my!

The young women who constitute the Red Cross working staff at this particular base, are, for the most part, prominent in society in the larger American cities. Voluntarily they have given up lives of luxury to tackle the job, and a hard job it is. They live in small barracks of their own, as do the "Tommywaacs" (Women's Army Auxiliary Corps) of the British army; but they are "roughing it" gladly to help Uncle Sam win his war.



—— OUR SANCTUM ——

It's an office, all right, for it has a typewriter in it. No, not the feminine person who usually decorates offices; simply the typewriting machine. It has a calendar too, as all well-regulated offices should have. The only things every well-regulated office has which it lacks are the red-and-white signs "Do It Now" and the far more cheerful wall motto, "Out to Lunch."

It has lamps, to be sure, not electric lights, as is the custom among offices in the States. It has maps on the walls, but they differ a great deal from the ones which used to hang above the Boss's desk back home, and at which we used to stare blankly while waiting for him to look up from his papers and say, "Well, whazzamatternow?" These maps have no red circles marking zones of distribution, no blue lines marking salesmen's routes and delimiting their territories, no stars marking agencies' locations. True, they have lines on them, and a few stars on them, but they stand for far different things....

Furnishings are Simple.

The office has a few rickety chairs, and one less rickety than the others which is reserved for the Big Works, as he is affectionately called, on the occasion of his few but none the less disquieting visits. It has a rickety table or two, usually only one, for firewood is scarce in France. It has a stove, which, from its battered appearance, must have been used as a street barricade during the Reign of Terror in the days of the First Revolution. Said stove requires the concentrated efforts of one husky Yank, speaking three languages—French, United States, and profane—all the live-long day to keep it going. Even then the man sitting nearest the window is always out of luck.

The walls are unkempt in appearance, as if the plaster had shivered involuntarily for many a weary day before the coming of "les Americains" and their insistence upon the installation of the stove. The paper is seamed and smeared until it resembles a bird's-eye view of the battlefield of the Marne. The ceiling is as smudged as the face of a naughty little boy caught in the midst of a raid on the jam in the pantry, due, no doubt, to the aforesaid stove and to the over-exuberant rising-and-shining of the kerosene lamps. Some people ascribe the state of the celling to the grade of tobacco which the Boss smokes; but the Boss always thunders back, "Well, what the devil can a man do in a country where even cornsilk would be a blessing?" And, as what the Boss says goes, that ends it.

There is one rug on the floor, a dilapidated affair that might well be the flayed hide of a flea-bitten mule. There is a mantlepiece, stretching across what used to be a fireplace in the days of the First Napoleon, but which is a fireplace no more. On top of the mantlepiece is a lot of dry reading—wicked-looking little books full of fascinating facts about how to kill people with a minimum of effort and ammunition. On the floor, no matter how carefully the office occupants scrape their hobnails before entering, there is always a thin coating of mud.

The office telephone is on the wall, instead of on the Boss's desk, as it ought to be. One has to take down receiver and transmitter all in the same piece in order to use it. And it has the same old Ford-crank attachment on the side that is common to phones in the rural free delivery districts of the United States of America.

Why Hats Are Worn.

Instead of being lined with bright young men in knobby business suits and white stiff collars, the office is lined with far brighter young men in much more businesslike khaki. They keep their hats on while they work for they know not when they may have to dash out again into the cold and the wind and the rain. They keep their coats on for the same reason; there are no shirt-sleeves and cuff protectors in this office, for the simple reason that there are no cuffs to be protected and that shirt-sleeves are "not military."

There is no office clock for the laggard to watch. Instead, there are bugle calls, sounded from without. Or, again the hungry man puts the forearm bearing his wrist watch in front of his face, as if to ward off a blow, when he wants to know the time. Save for the clanking of spurs and the thumping of rubber boots, it is a pretty quiet office, singularly so, in fact, considering the work that is done in it.

Take it all in all, it's a strange kind of an office, isn't is? Well, it ought to be, considering it's in a strange land. It's an army newspaper office, that's what it is—an American sanctum in the heart of France.



—— TACTICS GET GOAT ACROSS. —— Requirements Include Perfume, a Sack, a Kit Bag and Cheers. ——

From the C.O. down to "Fuzzy," who would have rather taken court martial, no one wanted to leave "Jazz" behind. So there was no end of indignation when the order came at a certain American port that no animals (unless useful) could go to France with the squadron.

"Jazz," being only a tender-hearted billy goat, could not claim exemption from remaining in the U.S.A., for, as everybody agreed, he was no earthly use, just "a poor, no-good goat." But "Jazz" did go aboard the transport, later an English railway train, next another ship and finally a French train until he arrived with the squadron at America's biggest air post in France. There I saw him the other day appreciatively licking devoted "Fuzzy's" hand.

It is not difficult to guess that "Jazz" is the mascot of "X" squadron, accepted by pilots and mechanics alike as talisman for good at some training camp back home. This office he has performed with exceptional skill from the day "Fuzzy" permitted him to "butt in" at the mechanics' mess.

"Fuzzy" and some of his pals slipped the goat into a sack and laid him down among the cold storage meat when the time came to help load the ship, taking care that the sack of live goat did not get into the refrigerator. When the ship was well out to sea, the sack was opened and "Jazz" crawled out blinking.

Even then "Fuzzy" was cautious. For the first days, he did not permit the animal to promenade indiscriminately, but subjected him to repeated scrubbings, following by perfume, toilet water and talcum powder. So when "Jazz" was really discovered, he smelt, but more like a barber shop than a goat. The ship's officers appreciated the joke and so did everyone else and soon "Jazz" became a favorite on deck. Repeatedly shampooed and perfumed, wearing a life-preserver, he moved about like a good sailor. But there was less joyful days ahead of him.

He did not exactly set foot on English soil as did his friends. He went ashore at an unmentionable port in a kit bag. In this he lay with the other bags, surrounded by a screen of men. "Jazz" was uncomfortable and said so in his goat way, but before he had uttered a full syllable his friends set up a cheer which drowned his voice.

This happened again and again. The first time, British transport officers at the port politely disregarded the Americans' demonstrations, but after the third time one of them exclaimed:

"Extraordinary, these Americans. Wonderful spirit."

And a little later when the men burst into an excessively loud hurrah to annihilate the voice of "Jazz" an elderly British colonel came over to them and inquired of a young American officer nearby:

"Splendid lungs your chaps have! But, really, what are they cheering for now?"

"Oh," returned the American, who very well knew why, "they're like that. Always cheering about something. Shall I stop it?"

"No, indeed! I think it's splendid."

So that adventure passed over nicely and "Jazz" went on in a "goods van" with the kit bags to another British sea port. After that there wasn't any further trouble.



—— WHERE LANGUAGE FAILS. ——

Remember along about examination time how you used to think Hades would be a good place for the professor?

Two Williams College graduates have had the pleasure of meeting their old French teacher in the nearest earthly approach to the Inferno—the trenches.

Officers now, the ex-students finally readied the battalion commander's post in a certain sector after a two-mile trudge from the rear through mud and ice water up to their hips.

A French interpreter met them at the door of the post.

"Yes, the major is in," he said, "but he won't see you till you shake hands with me."

Both officers thought they were face to face with a nut. Then, as they recognized their old teacher, two hands shot and grasped both of his.

"Well, I'll be darned—you haven't changed a bit!" was all the French they could remember.



—— HIS IS NOT A HAPPY LOT SAYS ARMY POSTAL CLERK —— Works Eighteen Hours a Day and Has To Be Both a Directory of the A. E. F. and a Sherlock Holmes. ——

"Private Wolfe Tone Moriarity, Fighting Umpth, France."

The Army Postal Service clerk surveyed the battered envelope on the desk before him, pushed his worn Stetson back from a forehead the wrinkles in which resembled a much fought-over trench system, adjusted his glasses to his weary eyes, spat, and remarked:

"Easy! The 'Fighting Umpth' was changed over into the Steenhundred and Umpty-umpth, wasn't it? The last that was heard from them they were at Blankville-sur-Bum. Now they've moved to Bingville-le-somethingorother. Clerk! Shove this in Box 4-11-44!"

"Lieutenant Brown, care American Army, somewhere in France."

Again the Postal Service man, once-overed the envelope, purplish in hue, went through the motions of pushing back his hat, expectorated, and began:

Purple Paper a Clue.

"That's Lieutenant James Brown, I reckon. There's a lot of that name in the Medical Department, but hell! He's married. Nobody writes to him on purple paper. Then there's another one in the One Thousand, Nine-Hundred and Seventeenth Motor-Ammunition-Ration-Revictualling-Woodchopping Battalion. His'n allus writes to him on that kind of paper. I guess that's him, all right. Hey, feller, shove this in 88966543, will-ya? Thanks!"

From the rear of a line of scrapping, frantic mail orderlies, each one trying to corner all the packages marked "Tobacco" and "Chocolate" for his particular outfit, the reporter, by standing on a box marked "Fragile—This Side Up," was able to see the scene depicted above, and to hear, above the din, the Postal Clerk's momentous decisions.

Nothing like that had ever come into his ken before. He had seen Col. Roosevelt at work in his office, talking into two telephones, dictating to four stenographers, and writing a letter with each hand simultaneously. He had watched the President of the United States dispose of four Senators, eight Representatives, three Governors of States, seven Indian tribal chiefs and the German ambassador in exactly seven and a half minutes by the clock. But never, in all his experience, had he witnessed such concentration, such rapidity of execution, as that which the lean, worn man at the big desk possessed. It was better than watching a machine gun in action, with all stops out.

Worming his way up to the desk, the reporter started on his set speech. "Mr. Army Post Office Superintendent, will you consent to be interviewed for——" when he was summarily stopped by the wave of an ample hand and the booming of the P.S.'s voice.

"Want me to talk, do you, eh? Want to know what I do with my spare time? All right, son; just jump over that gang of pouch-robbers and come on inside. Here you——" this to the still combatant orderlies, at the same time throwing an armfull of mail and papers at them—"here's all the stuff for your outfits to-day. Divvy up among yourselves, and then breeze!—beat it!—allez!

"Now, then, you want to know what I do with my spare time? Well, I work eighteen hours a day in the office, and the other six I spend worrying whether or not I gipped some poor Buddy when I cashed his American money order in French paper currency. Like the saloons in Hoboken, we never close.

Really Busy at Christmas.

"That's just about the way it was, no kidding, during the Christmas rush. In about a month enough tobacco, chocolate, chewing gum, knit socks, mufflers, fruit cake, safety razors, lump sugar—to judge from the contents lists on the outside of the bundles—came through this office to stock the whole of France for the next year and a half. Now, though"—tossing a long, yellow envelope across the room into a numbered pigeonhole—"things have slackened up a bit. A week ago I had half an hour off to shave."

"Do the people back home cause you much bother by not addressing their letters correctly?" asked the reporter.

"N—no," replied the P.S. meditatively, "although I did get one the other day addressed to Private Ethan Allan of the 'American Revolutionary Force.' At first I was going to send it back to Vermont, after changing the private to Colonel, and have the D.A.R. see that it got somewhere near old Ethe's final resting place; but on second thought I guessed she—it's generally a she—meant the American Expeditionary Forces. So I went down about three or four regimental rosters, and finally I found the guy. Now he's probably wondering why he didn't get that letter in a month, instead of a month and a half, and cussing me out for the delay.

"The most trouble comes, though, from these birds what don't stay put. They come over here all right with one unit, and then they get transferred to some other. Then the unit is moved around, and the folks back in the States, not knowing about it, continue to send stuff to the old address. But generally we get 'em located in time."

A Rush After Pay Day.

"How about the mail from this side?" the reporter queried. "Do you think that the franking privilege causes the men to write more letters than they ordinarily would? Does sending their letters free pile things up for you?"

"I don't think so," the mail magnate responded, "because the lads are being kept so all-fired busy these days they don't honestly have time to write much. On the bundle proposition, though, we have an awful rush of stuff just after pay day, when it seems as if every man was bent on buying up all the lace handkerchiefs in the country to send to his girl.

"Oh, take it all in all, it's a great life if you don't weaken," the P.S. concluded. "I've been in the Government post office service for sixteen years, now, and I never had so much fun before. I do wish, though, that the boys would get stouter envelopes for their letters, because the ones they get from the Y.M.—and ninety-eight per cent. of the letters that go out from here are written on Y.M. stationery—are too flimsy to stand much manhandling, and when they get wet they're pretty much out of luck. Good-bye; drop in again some day when we're really busy!"



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[Cartoon: THEN AND NOW—WAR MAKES AN AWFUL DIFFERENCE—BY WALLGREN]



NO MORE CUSSING (—IT!) AT MULES —— Order (—it!) Says That Animals are Sensitive as ——. ——

Cussing, as a fine art, is doomed in the Army.

Its foremost practitioners, the mule-skinners, are shorn of their deadliest weapon of offense and defense by a recent order which directs them to use honeyed words when addressing their feathery-eared charges, instead of employing the plain, direct United States to which the mules' painfully obvious hearing organs have hitherto been attuned.

Kindness, the order says in effect, will work wonders with the genus Missouri nightingale or Indiana canary; if spoken to with proper regard for his or her feelings, a mule will oftentimes go so far as to place his or her hoof in a driver's lap.

When one is able, with impunity, to tickle a mule behind the ear (either ear will do) one is adjudged proficient in interpreting the aesthetic aspirations of the beast; and all mule-skinners are exhorted to apply the ear-tickling proposition as a sort of acid test both as to the tractability of their charges and their own ability as mule-tamers. The application of this test, it is held, will keep the mule-skinners too fully occupied to be able to cuss or to care a cuss about cussing.

This Stuff is Out o' Date.

But, men of the Old Army, particularly those who have trained with mountain batteries, think of what is passing! Think of what the younger and more effete generation of mules is missing! No more beneath the starry flag will be heard such he-language as this:—

"Come on, Maud, you —— Hoosier ——! Get a wiggle on your —— good-for-nothing carcass! GIDDAP, Bill! You long-eared, flea-bitten, hay-demolishing, muddy-flanked, rock-ribbed ——, —— I said it! GIDDAP!"

Or with the native product: "Depechez-vous, vous ——. Oh, h—l, I'm out of French! Say, Jimmy! What's the word for ——? Never mind; all mules understand ——! Hey there, you ——! Make tracks!"

Now, all is changed and such dulcet appeals to His Muleship as this are the order of the day:

"Get a gait on, Sapphira, you ——! Oh, hell, I forgot! Aw, c'me on now, old girl! We ain't got the whole morning t' waste! Be a sport, old lady! Forward —— hoh!

"Say, for ——. Oh, hell—I mean Heaven! Dammit, I forgot again! You, Ananias, will you do me the esteemed favor to start the process? Will you condescend to lift at least one leg?"

But This Stuff Does the Job.

Ananias puts one hoof forward in experimental manner, then stops. About this time a brother mule-skinner enters, mouthing a corncob pipe. Says he to the first mule-skinner:

"Whattamatter, Jerry? Don't they budge? Livin' up to orders, be yeh? Aw, wee; way to talk to'm is third person—get me?—third person. None o' this crude 'you' and 'yeze' stuff—same as talking to the Skipper, y'know."

Jerry gets his mouth all fixed to say, "Aw, hell," recovers himself, and then begins: "Will the off animile kindly step at least two paces to the front?" (The mule starts to comply.) "I thank the off mule! Now, will the near mule kindly follow suit?" (It also starts to comply.) "Now, will both the near mule and the off mule be so good as to repeat the process, both pulling together, until requested to desist? Fine; off we go. Good Gawd—good Gawd!"



—— HOW GEORGE ADE SEES WAR. —— Many Old Adages Must Be Revised If Germany Wins. ——

As his contribution to the National Security League's campaign of patriotism, George Ade has written a message to our young fighting men. "We must win this war," he contends, "or else revise all moral codes, rewrite all proverbs and adopt a brand new set of rules to govern conduct. If Germany is not licked to a standstill, we might as well begin to memorize and humbly accept the following:

"Dishonesty is the best policy.

"Be as mean as a skunk and you will be happy.

"Blessed are the child murderers, for they shall inherit the earth.

"Be sure you are right handy with fire-arms, then go ahead.

"An evil reputation is better than riches.

"Truth crushed to earth will not rise again if the crushing is done in a superior and efficient manner.

"Be virtuous and you will be miserable.

"Thrice armed is he who goes around picking quarrels.

"Might makes right.

"Hell on earth and hatred for all men.

"Do unto others as you suspect that they might do unto you if they ever got to be as disreputable as you are.

"God helps the man who helps himself to his neighbor's house and his field and his unprotected women.

"These don't sound right, do they?

"The old ones that we learned first of all are not yet out of date.

"Suppose we don't revise them."



—— GLORIFIED. —— (With apologies to the late Sir W. S. Gilbert.) ——

When I was a lad I served a term In a military school—how it made me squirm! I wore a shako, and a lot of braid. And I startled fire horses when on dress parade; But they took all glory away from me As a second lieut. a-wearing of my plain O. D.

When I went to college, I was gayly clad In a sporty costume made of shepherd's plaid; I tried pink neckties and vermillion socks, And when I went out walking, I set back the clocks. But when I took Uncle Sam's degree I was nothing but a second lieut. in plain O. D.

In business, too, I made quite a splurge In a nobby garment made of ultra-serge; With rings and watchfob and a stickpin, too, I could show all the dandies of the town a few— So think what a comedown 'twas for me As a second lieut. a-wearing of my plain O. D.

But now, however, they have gone so far As to place on my shoulderstrap a neat gold bar, And they've sewn a dido on my overcoat, Which, while it lends distinction, nearly gets my goat; So now, at last, you can plainly see I'm a second lieut. no longer clad in plain O. D.!

I'm proud, believe me, of those new gold bars— I wouldn't swap 'em for the General's stars; And the little stripe upon my blouse's sleeve Means that nevermore for splendor shall my young soul grieve,— For bars and braid, you can plainly see, Make an awful lot of difference on plain O. D.!



—— THE PASSING OF THE CAMPAIGN HAT. ——

"The campaign hat is going; 'twill soon be tres passe— The winds of war got under it and blew it far away; The General (he who owned it) cussed, as Generals sometimes do: "Get us," he cried, "a hat to stick; with this blank kind I'm through!" His orderly picked up the hat, all battered, torn and frayed, "Quite right," he ruminated, "you won't do for parade; Yet, good old lid, you've got your place—perhaps not over here, But there are regions in the States that hold your memory dear."

"The shadow of your ugly shape has blacked the Western plains; It brought relief to border towns all soaked with tropic rains; The sight of you, at column's head, made redskins turn and flee,— O'er barren land you've led the van that fights for Liberty. The Filipino knows you; his protection you have meant, And the wily Pancho Villa never dared to try and dent The contour of your homely crown or chip your wobbly brim,— You, old chapeau, spelt business; and that left no room for him!