Chapter IV: Part 4

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!

"From far Alaska's ice-bound coast to Porto Rico's strand,
You've kept the sun and rain and sleet from Uncle Sam'yal's band;
You've stood for no blame nonsense, and you've brooked no talking back,
And cleaner towns and cities fair have sprung up in your track.
You--what's the use?--you've been there since the days of
'Ninety-Eight--
You've weathered twenty years of squalls--and now you get the gate!
But you're too good a soldier, old dip, to cuss or cry;
So--(there he heaved it into space)--goodby, old hat; goodby!"

----
OVER THE TOP THREE WAYS.
----
Feet, Tank and Plane Tried by this
U. S. Officer--Ready for Next.
----

If they ever invent a new way of going over the top, there's one American officer who will probably be on hand to try the new wrinkle. The French Government has decorated him with the Croix de Guerre for going over the sacks in every way known to date.

First, he went over with the French infantry in an attack last spring. Though detailed as an observer, and not required to take too many chances, the officer was one of the first wave to cross No Man's Land. He stayed with his unit until the objective was gained, and when it had to fall back before a heavy counter-attack he fell back fighting with it.

Some weeks later he went over the top in a tank. He followed that trip a few days later by an aeroplane observation flight. For the greater part of an afternoon the plane cruised up and down a German sector watching the effect of big French shells on concrete defences.

The Boche anti-aircraft guns made it warm for the American flier, but he was still an enthusiastic aviator when the plane came to a successful landing on its own field at dusk.

----
WHERE HE GETS OFF.
----

(A sample letter).

France, January, 1918.

I. Rookum, Gents' Tailor, U. S. A.

"Dear Sir:--

"Your interesting advertisement of
spring styles for young men, knobby
clothes for business wear, and so forth,
just received.

"While I appreciate your thinking of
me, I am glad to say I have changed
my tailor, and will not require your
services until peace is declared.

"U. S. & Co. are now supplying me
with some very nifty suitings of khaki,
which I find best adapted to my present
line of business. They don't get shiny in
the seat of the trousers--for the simple
reason that I never have time to sit
down.

"They are also supplying me with
headwear, their latest in that line being
a derby-like affair with a stiff steel
crown, which affords me better protection
against the elements and the shrapnel
than anything any civilian hatter
has furnished me.

"Thanking you for past favors, and
hoping to see you on the dock when the
transport pulls in a couple of years from
now, I remain,

"Yours truly,
"I. Don't Needum, Pvt., A. E. F."

----
TWO SAMARITANS IN SKIRTS.
----
In the Modern Parable, They Aid
a Poilu Chauffeur.
----

The woman motorcar driver has made her appearance in the zone of the army. A few of them are driving big motor trucks for the Y.M.C.A. and are making good at the job.

During a recent heavy snowstorm, two trucks driven by young women were sliding along a winding road carrying supplies to a hut from a depot when they came upon a big French lorry stalled in a ditch. The French soldier in charge was tinkering with the engine, having stalled it while trying to pull into the road again. He wasn't having much success.

Both the women, garbed in short skirts, high and heavy leather boots, and woolen caps that pulled down well over their ears, climbed down from their seats and between them first managed to get the engine in the stalled lorry started, and then one of them took her place behind the wheel and by skilful manoeuvring brought all four wheels to the road.

The Frenchman stood to one side during the whole of the operation and watched the women with astonishment.

WELLS FARGO & CO.

4 RUE SCRIBE, PARIS

Head Office: 51 Broadway, NEW YORK

Take pleasure in announcing to the

AMERICAN AND BRITISH EXPEDITIONARY FORCES

that the great French Bank, the

SOCIETE GENERALE

has very kindly agreed to act as

WELLS FARGO'S CORRESPONDENT THROUGHOUT FRANCE

Cable and mail transfers of money to all parts
of America may be made through Wells Fargo by calling at
the Societe Generale.

Deposit accounts with Wells Fargo, Paris, may be
opened at the Societe Generale.

SOCIETE GENERALE has Branches at:--

AMIENS CHALONS-SUR-MARNE LA ROCHELLE SAINT NAZAIRE
ANGERS CHATEAUROUX LIMOGES SAUMUR
ARCACHON CHAUMONT MIRECOURT TOUL
AUXONNE DIJON NANTES TOURS
BAR-LE-DUC EPINAL NEUFCHATEAU TROYES
BESANCON FONTAINEBLEAU NEVERS VALREAS
BORDEAUX IS-SUR-TILLE RENNES VIERZON
BOURGES ISSOUDUN ROMORANTIN and many others.
BREST LANGRES ROUEN

Circulars giving full explanation of WELLS FARGO'S Banking
Facilities in France may be obtained at the Branches of the
Societe Generale.

----
TO FLASH THE HOUR
BY ARMY WIRES.
----
New A. E. F. Lines Will
Insure U. S. Well-Set
Time Pieces.
----

Correct time is now being transmitted to the A. E. F. over its own system of telegraph lines. Formerly field wireless stations each day at a certain hour picked from the air figures flashed from Paris by which the clocks of the array were synchronized. This method did not insure absolute accuracy.

Each day at eleven o'clock a simultaneous signal is sent to every station so that through the existing zone, and at the front as well, clocks and watches show the same time. This synchronization is desirable under present conditions and it is an absolute necessity with troops at the front when, for instance, orders may specify that some operation is to be carried out at one point at a certain time and another operation at another point at another time. The success of both operations may depend upon whether they are launched on the second.

Miles upon miles of telegraph wires strung on poles labeled "U. S. A." now stretch through France. They may be found running to base ports, zigzagging through the instruction zone over hills, through a valley, along a roadside. On some of the poles there are double cross-beams supporting in many cases as many as ten wires. There is a complete system of operators and central exchanges as well as a considerable force of linemen and repairmen, quite a number of whom worked for telephone and telegraph companies in the United States before the war began. The "service" leaves little, if anything, to be desired.

----
HOW THEY SPOT US.
----

"Madame, where in this town can one get a drink, _s'il vous plait_?"

"Ah! I can see that M. l'Americain comes from the State of Maine!"

----
TRY POTATO BUGS IN BOMBS.
----
An Ohio Man's Suggestion on How
to Win the War.
----

The war will soon be over. An Ohio man will end it. He has suggested to U.S. Marine Corps officials in Washington that they direct their aviators to drop potato bugs over Germany. He declares there are no potato bugs in the Kaiser's realm, and since the "spud" is absolutely essential to Germany's economic welfare, the dropping of "Murphy destroyers" over the Rhine country would quickly terminate hostilities. Simple, isn't it? Marine Corps officials think so.

A BRITISH BANK CONDUCTED ON BRITISH LINES.

LLOYDS BANK (FRANCE) &
NATIONAL PROVINCIAL BANK (FRANCE)
LIMITED.

3, PLACE DE L'OPERA, PARIS.

General Banking Business.
Foreign Exchange and Transfers.

{BIARRITZ: 10, Place de la Liberte.
Branches {BORDEAUX: 23, Allees de Chartres.
{HAVRE: 1, Rue de la Bourse.
{NICE: 6, Jardin du Roi Albert Premier.

LONDON OFFICE: 60, LOMBARD STREET, E.C.3.

AMERICAN UNIVERSITY UNION IN EUROPE
8, RUE DE RICHELIEU, PARIS
(Royal Palace Hotel)

OBJECTS--The general object of the Union is to meet the needs of
American university and college men and their friends
who are in Europe for military or other service in the
cause of the Allies.

It provides at moderate cost a home with the privileges
of a simple club for these men when passing through
Paris on a furlough.

It aids institutions, parents or friends to secure
information about college men, reporting on casualties,
visiting the sick and wounded, giving advice, and in
general serving as means of communication between those
at home and their relatives in service.

MEMBERSHIP--The Union is supported by annual fees paid by the
colleges and universities of America, all the
students and alumni of which, whether graduates or
not, are thereby entitled, WITHOUT PAYMENT OF ANY
DUES, to the general privileges of the Union, and
may call upon the Union in person or by mail to
render them any reasonable service.

HEADQUARTERS--On October 20, 1917, the Union took over as its
Paris headquarters the Royal Palace Hotel, of
which it has the exclusive use. This centrally
located hotel is one block from the Louvre and
the Palais Royal station of the Metro., from
which all parts of the city may be reached
quickly and cheaply.

PRIVILEGES--The Union offers at reasonable rates both single
and double bed-rooms, with or without bath. There
is hot and cold running water in all rooms, which
are well heated. Room reservations should be made
in advance whenever possible, as only 100 men can
be accommodated. The restaurant serves excellent
meals both to roomers and to transients.

The Lounge Room is supplied with all the leading
American newspapers, magazines and college
publications. The rapidly growing Library on the
first floor provides fiction and serious reading,
both French and English, as well as a large number
of valuable reference books on the war and other
subjects.

Stationery is provided in the Writing Room on the
ground floor. A Canteen in the Lobby carries
cigarettes and tobacco, toilet articles, candies,
and a variety of other useful things. An
Information Bureau is maintained in the Union
Offices on the Entresol.

Frequent entertainments and concerts are given.
Afternoon tea is served every Saturday, at which
some American lady acts as hostess.

REGISTRATION--The Union keeps an accurate index of all men who
register at its Paris headquarters or at its
London Branch, 16, Pall Mall East, S.W.1. It is
anxious to get in touch with all college and
university men in Europe, who are therefore urged
to register by MAIL, giving name, college, class,
European address and name and address of nearest
relative at home.

----
AMERICA'S BEST MEDICOS
AT WORK FOR THE A. E. F.
----
Incomes of Specialists in the Overseas Command
Would Total Enough to Pay off the
National Debt.
----

If the incomes of all the well-known American specialists who have come to France to look after the health of the A.E.F. troops were lumped together they would be enough to pay off the national debt of the country and then leave sufficient to satisfy a camp store-keeper.

This is no pipe dream or a simple newspaper yarn, but the plain truth. Some of the medicos from the United States have given up earnings of such big figures they should only be mentioned kneeling. Where they gathered in half a million at home yearly, they are accepting a major's three thousand and service allowance, in order to see that Bill Jones from Kankakee or Sam Smith from Pleasantville has the proper treatment for warts in his stomach or barnacles on his thinking apparatus.

In addition to separating themselves from large wads of coin and all the comforts of home, they have brought over the staffs of their various hospitals, who know all their funny ways of operating, from how best to cut a man loose from his appendix to painless extraction of the bankroll. They have also brought along all their collections of patent knives and scissors, the only thing they left behind being the doctors' bills that would take a year's service as a doughboy to meet the first instalment.

A Fear to Forget.

Nearly everyone has an ingrowing objection to going to a hospital, or acknowledging he must take the count for an illness, because of fear as to what treatment he may draw.

Forget it!

The Amexforce hospitals are not built along those lines, nor are the nurses sweet young things of fifty odd summers who hand out tracts with the morning's milk or make kittenish love to a lad who may be tied down to a bed or too weak to run away. And the doctors are not owlish-looking creatures with whiskers that would make a goat die of envy and sick-room manners that would scare a Mental Scientist into catalepsy. They are real human beings who understand the troubles of mankind from nostalgia (professional name for homesickness) down to enlargement of the coco (unprofessional name for the swelled head) and are doing everything in their power to make a little easier the big game we are playing to a showdown with the Kaiser.

It's human nature to hate to go to the doctor. But if the boys would only realize that if they would take their smaller troubles to the "docs" they could easily prevent them from becoming more serious ones, it would save a lot of useless suffering. Of course, that doesn't apply to treatment for the wounded, but the Army Chief Surgeon is trying his darndest to make that as perfect as possible.

A Hospital of 20,000 Beds.

In the first place, adequate hospital facilities have been arranged for. One hospital alone has a capacity for 20,000 beds. At an emergency call, the hospitals can handle twenty per cent. of the whole Amexforce. To begin with the trenches, the Medical Department has introduced a sort of folding litter that can go around corners without having to make a man who's hit get out and walk around the bends. When he gets to the dressing station or collecting hospital, motor ambulances are ready to take him back to the evacuating hospital, where the women nurses take their chances with the men, eight to ten miles behind the line.

Once his case is looked into there, he continues under the charge of that hospital chief until he gets well or is sent home. If he's moved to another hospital his record and register go with him, so that the new hospital knows immediately he was invalided for a piece of shell in his leg, and no flurried or overworked surgeon tries to operate on him for inflammation of the intestines.

From beginning to end, the best specialists in the whole of the Union are at the disposal of any one who's unfortunate enough to get hurt. If it's eyes, ears, throat, abdomen, shell shock, mental derangement, or no matter what, one of the biggest men from home is on the job. They are not correspondence school surgeons, either.

Some of the Experts.

Maybe one of these is from your own home town and you know him by name or reputation: George E. Brewer, New York; George W. Crile, Cleveland; Henry Cushing, Boston, the brain specialist, who knows every cell in the think tank and just how it works and operates; F. A. Washburn, Boston; Samuel Lloyd, New York; C. L. Gibson, New York; R. H. Harte, Philadelphia; F. A. Besley, Chicago; Angus McLean, Detroit; Charles H. Peck, New York; John M. T. Finney, of Johns Hopkins, Baltimore; F. T. Murphy, St. Louis; M. Clinton, Buffalo; R. T. Miller, Pittsburgh; C. R. Clark, Youngstown, O.; E. D. Clark, Indianapolis; B. R. Shurley, Detroit; Joseph E. Flynn, Yale Medical.

If that isn't enough, associated with each of these men are other doctors whose ability is pretty well known all over the States. For instance, Dr. Lloyd, of New York, has with him Dr. McKernon, also of the big town, one of the best ear specialists in the country. If a shell goes off too near you and the eardrum suffers, Dr. McKernon will be on the job to find out if he can't make a new one.

A man who has just come over from Baltimore said the Army had practically cleaned out Johns Hopkins University there, which produces more good doctors to the square inch than France does fleas. So when it comes to sorting out the cases, the men with the bad listeners won't be sent to the throat specialist, nor the chap with a wounded eye made a candidate for the brainstorm man.

The Army's Big Eye Man.

Cases of eye wounds or troubles are handled by a doctor who probably knows more about the eye than any one man in America, Dr. George de Schweinitz, of Philadelphia, who has transplanted his whole sanitarium to France in order that no man of the Amexforce may be deprived of his sight where there is one chance in a million of saving it. With that in view, the chances of coming out of this mess with both eyes are exceptionally good. Statistics from both French and British armies show that of all the wounded they have had, only one man in 1,200 is blinded. If they had had the organization of the American medical force, the chance would probably have been reduced to one man in 2,500.

No one pretends to say that our hospitals make sickness or wounds a pleasure, but be assured of one thing. If anything happens to you, you'll be well looked after in them by the world's leading medical and surgical authorities.

----
A PLEA TO THE CENSOR.
----

"Say," said a short, bow-legged corporal the other day, "I wanta send three pictures home to the folks, but I dunnoo how I can get it across. These censorship rules say all you can send is pictures of yourself without background that might indicate the whereabouts of the studio or other strategic information. These ain't pictures of myself, nothing like it. Wait till I tell you.

"I'm going to entitle this series 'Rapid Transit in France.' I took 'em with a little pocket camera. There's one I took up at the port where we landed--first picture I took in France, it was. It shows one of these two-wheeled carts, with three animals hitched to it. One is a horse, one is a dog, and in the middle there's a great big old cow, and an old French feller in a blue nightshirt sittin' in the road milkin' the cow.

"Then there's another I took over at ---- (the town where general headquarters are situated) of the 'bus that goes down to the station to meet trains. You won't believe this unless you've seen it, but that 'bus is hitched up to a horse an' a camel, a regular camel like you see in a circus--come from Morocco, they tell me, and looks as if he had gone as long as it is camels can go without a drink, or chow, either.

"The last one's a prize. I took it in one of those villages up the line. It's a young kid in a soldier's coat down to his knees walking down the main street with a stick in his hand driving a sled, and what do you guess is hitched to the sled? By gosh, a big fat goose, and nothing else. The kid's steerin' the goose with the stick, and the goose's lookin' around with that fool goose look, just like the picture you see of that Crown Prince.

"Say, what do you think those folks with their automobiles and subways and everything would make of that? It sure would open their eyes. Travel's a great thing for a man," said the corporal.

This New Official Photograph Shows Some of Our Over-seas Troops
in their Ringside Costume.]

----
WHAT SAILOR INGRAM DID.
----

Neither Casablanca nor Horatius at the bridge surpassed in heroism young Osmond Kelly Ingram, who threw overboard the explosives on the American destroyer Cassin in order that the German submarine's torpedo should not detonate them and destroy his ship--and gave his life for his comrades and his country in doing so. Ingram sought danger instead of fleeing it. He might have saved his life without discredit. But he did not think of his life--or if he thought of it, he knew that he was deliberately sacrificing it. And he acted with instant resolution.

To his courage and his quickness is due the fact that Ingram's was the only life lost in the German attack on the Cassin. That result he foresaw and welcomed. He knew how to take death as his portion without an instant's hesitation. He was of the breed of heroes, and his name will be borne forever on the nation's roll of honor.--Boston Transcript.

----
THE ROAD WAS OPEN.
----

France's wonderful highways which saved her in this war are as crooked as a jig saw puzzle, but there are excellent maps which show every road in the country. Up near the fighting front, however, the new military roads are as broad and as good as some of the old highways which have survived since the days of the Romans and more than a map is needed if you want to remain in France.

A few days ago two American newspaper correspondents were travelling from one French city to another, the shortest course, according to the same excellent maps, taking them close back of the French lines. All day there had been a blinding snow, it was deep and loose on the ground, and the car was going as fast as possible for safety.

Temporary wooden signs at cross roads showed the direction of different camps. The road plunged through a forest, occasionally they passed a soldier plodding through the snow, then emerged along the base of a ridge honeycombed with dug-outs and bombproofs on its sheltered side. It was plain that they were close to the front. Soldiers peered from doorways at the car skidding through the swirling snow; then the huts ceased. For a mile the correspondents ran behind a flapping wall of canvas camouflage, with barbwire entanglements on the other side of the road. The map indicated they were on the right road.

Then they came to a barbwire affair like a turnstile lying on its side in the middle of the road, and stopped. They could not see a hundred feet through the fog and snow, but could hear the muffled boom of nearby cannon. The map showed only three kilometers ahead the main highway to the city they were headed for. They did not know that the German trenches were only two kilometers ahead and that the snow was the only reason the Boche had not seen them and favored them with a shot. Two French officers came along and in his best French one of the correspondents asked if they could get through on that road.

"Yes, if you speak German," was the answer with a laugh and in excellent English.

----
THERE'S A REASON.
----

"For Pete's sake, Ed, quit tryin' to pick your teeth with your fork! Mind your manners, man!"

"Aw, go easy, Mike; how'n'ell am I goin' to buy a toothpick, with wood so expensive in France?"

----
SEA SLANG PUZZLES POILU.
----
Trips on an Idiom and His Pride
Takes a Fall.
----

Among the idiomatic terms adopted by United States Marines everywhere, the expression "shove off" is used more frequently than any other. In the sea-soldier lingo, if a Marine goes home on furlough, leaves his camp or garrison or goes anywhere, he "shoves off."

A story comes from France of a Marine who had been acting as orderly for a lieutenant. The officer sent him on an errand, and when he returned the lieutenant was nowhere about. A poilu, who happened to be loitering in the vicinity, was questioned by the Marine:

"Have you seen the lieutenant?"

"Oui, monsieur, oui," replied the poilu, proud of his newly acquired Marine Corps English, "he have--what you call--pushed over."

----
HOW ABOUT THEM?
----

Things that make all the difference in the world:--

A letter from ---- (fill in name to suit yourself.)

A real soap-and-hot-water bath.

A real shave.

Dry feet.

American tobacco.

"Good work!" from the skipper.

A home-town paper less than a month old.

"Seconds" on coffee--when it's made right.

Pay-day.

----
YANKEE AVIATORS
PLAY IN LUCK
----
Dead Engine Sneezes and
Picks Up after a 2,000
Meter Drop.
----
SKY FULL OF CREAM PUFFS.
----
Observer Who Fails to Surround
Something Hot Faints
From the Cold.
----

Those were American boys who dodged Boche air patrols, laughed at anti-aircraft guns and spattered bombs upon Rombach and Ludwigshafen far behind the Boche lines.

One of them used to be a Presbyterian minister, the Rev. Joseph Wilson, of Wheeling, W. Va., another is Bud Lehr, of Albion, Neb., who played center on a basketball team that won the State championship. The others are Charles Kinsolving and Charles Kerwood, of Philadelphia, and George Kyle, of Portland, Ore. They are corporals in a French flying squadron situated within an hour's flight of an American infantry training camp.

Seated around the rough mess table in their popotte--a tiny building stuck away on a ledge of rock under a cliff--they told all about the bombing of the railroad stations and ammunition factories at Rombach and Ludwigshafen.

"The old Boche almost got me that time," said Lehr, lifting the oil cloth table cover to knock wood. "The engine of my boat died on me just over Rombach. I pulled everything in sight and kicked every lever I couldn't see. Nothing doing; anti-aircraft shells bursting right on a level with me. We began to drop. I turned around to the observer and pulled a sea-sick grin.

A Sneeze Spelled Joy.

"'It's all off, kid,' he said. 'Looks like we're through.'

"We dropped from 5,000 meters to 3,000. Then the engine sneezed, coughed and took up again. My heart and the boat came up 2,000 meters in one jump. The rest of the formation had gone on, dropped their bombs on Rombach and were beating it for Ludwigshafen. By the time I got back to my right altitude I could see the effects of their bombs. The railroad station was burning like a haystack and smoke was coming from the munitions plant. I circled the town and the observer released the bombs.

"Then I turned nose back towards Verdun and crossed the lines. A couple of miles behind the line the engine ran out of gas, so we came down in a field."

They circled several times on the French side of the lines before crossing in order to reach the necessary altitude. Kyle dropped eight bombs, most of them on the munition plant at Ludwigshafen.

"The sky was full of cream puffs," he said, "but it didn't bother us very much because most of the stuff was breaking above or below us. We took our time, aimed for the objective, and dropped the bombs.

Can't See Bomb's Results.

"You can't hear them explode or see the results unless you're flying quite a distance behind the squadron because we go so fast that by the time the fire gets under way we are miles off. Except for Lehr's machine, we maintained our formation and came out flying in the same position. If there were any Boche patrols out in our neighborhood they knew better than to tackle us.

"When we came down I found my observer unconscious. I thought he had been hit, but he had only fainted from the cold.

"You big rummy," turning to the observer and swiping one of his cigarettes from the open box on the table--"You big rummy, I told you you had better surround something hot before starting--a bowl of oatmeal or coffee.

"Gimmie a light now."

All five are awaiting their transfer to the American flying corps.

----
STARS IN A HERO'S ROLE.
----
Movie Actor Plays Sapper in a
Real Rescue.
----

Among the candidates for officers' commissions at the A. E. F.'s training schools is a former movie star who has served his apprenticeship with the British Army. To see him now, few would recognize him as one of the high steppers under the bright night lights of Broadway as he was a year ago. Seized by a sudden impulse, he enlisted in the British army without waiting for America to get into the war and now in return for faithful service, has been given an opportunity by that government to fight under his own flag. Several other Americans who have also worn the British uniform, and who were sent to the school for the same purpose, tell this story of one of the former screen star's experiences:

In the darkness--locomotives, auto lights in the fighting zone--a heavily loaded truck was struck by a train. The truck was overturned down an embankment, imprisoning the two men on it, killing one almost instantly and seriously injuring the other. Spurred by the latter's groans and appeals for help an officer was directing a squad of men with crowbars and sticks in an effort to lift the truck when the former actor came up. The men were making no progress in budging the heavy wreck while there was a possibility, if they did, that it would crash down on the still living man.

"I think I can get the man out, sir if I may try," the New Yorker said saluting the officer.

"Who are you?" the officer asked surprised at the interruption.

"I'm a Yank, sir," he replied, using the popular designation for Americans in the British army.

"What's your rank?" continued the officer, determined that the man be rescued properly if at all.

"Master engineer, sir," the American answered.

Evidently that was sufficient for the officer, for he at once assented with:

"You may try. Lend him a hand men."

The "Yank" took a shovel and started tunnelling under the truck. As he wormed himself into the little hole, the shovel was abandoned for a bayonet and he pushed the dirt back with his hands to others, who threw it aside. After an hour's work, he had the dead man out. Another hour, and he had burrowed molelike, to the side of the other man, who still was conscious.

"Do you want to take a chance? It'll be torture getting out," he said to the truck driver.

"Anything to get from here to die outside," the man gasped.

A rope was shoved in and the American tied it around the man's legs. Slowly, while he guided the battered body of the now unconscious man, comrades pulled them both back through the narrow tunnel.

"I'll see that you're mentioned in regimental orders for your efforts," said the officer to the exhausted "Yank," and he did.

The truck driver had an arm broken, a shoulder crushed and a fractured skull. He was rushed to a hospital on a chance that his life might be saved after so much effort. The work was not in vain, for a few days ago a letter was received from him, well again at his home in England, saying to the former movie star:

"The latch string of this home in Leicester is always hanging out for you."

----
"WELL, I'LL BE--!"
----
THEY'RE ALL HERE.
----

"Fat Casey!"

"Well, I'll be--!"