Nothin’ doin’ this time o’ year anyway,” said Cohen. A grin spread across his red face. “Last time I was at the front the Boche had just made a coup de main and captured a whole trenchful.”
“Of who?”
“Of Americans—of us!”
“The hell you say!”
“That’s a goddam lie,” shouted a black-haired man with an ill-shaven jaw, who had just come in. “There ain’t never been an American captured, an’ there never will be, by God!”
“How long were you at the front, buddy,” asked Cohen coolly. “I guess you been to Berlin already, ain’t yer?”
“I say that any man who says an American’ld let himself be captured by a stinkin’ Hun, is a goddam liar,” said the man with the ill-shaven jaw, sitting down sullenly.
“Well, you’d better not say it to me,” said Cohen laughing, looking meditatively at one of his big red fists.
There had been a look of apprehension on Marie’s face. She looked at Cohen’s fist and shrugged her shoulders and laughed.
Another crowd had just slouched into the café.
“Well if that isn’t wild Dan! Hello, old kid, how are you?”
“Hello, Dook!”
A small man in a coat that looked almost like an officer’s coat, it was so well cut, was shaking hands effusively with Cohen. He wore a corporal’s stripes and a British aviator’s fatigue cap. Cohen made room for him on the bench.
“What are you doing in this hole, Dook?”
The man twisted his mouth so that his neat black mustache was a slant.
“G. O. 42,” he said.
“Battle of Paris?” said Cohen in a sympathetic voice.
“Battle of Nice! I’m going back to my section soon. I’d never have got a court-martial if I’d been with my outfit. I was in the Base Hospital 15 with pneumonia.”
“Tough luck!”
“It was a hell of a note.”
“Say, Dook, your outfit was working with ours at Chamfort that time, wasn’t it?”
“You mean when we evacuated the nut hospital?”
“Yes, wasn’t that hell?” Dan Cohen gulped down half a glass of red wine, smacked his thick lips, and began in his story-telling voice:
“Our section had just come out of Verdun where we’d been getting hell for three weeks on the Bras road. There was one little hill where we’d have to get out and shove every damn time, the mud was so deep, and God, it stank there with the shells turning up the ground all full of mackabbies as the poilu call them. … Say, Dook, have you got any money?”
“I’ve got some,” said Dook, without enthusiasm.
“Well, the champagne’s damn good here. I’m part of the outfit in this gin mill; they’ll give it to you at a reduction.”
“All right!”
Dan Cohen turned round and whispered something to Marie. She laughed and dived down behind the curtain.
“But that Chamfort was worse yet. Everybody was sort o’ nervous because the Germans had dropped a message sayin’ they’d give ’em three days to clear the hospital out, and that then they’d shell hell out of the place.”
“The Germans done that! Quit yer kiddin’,” said Fuselli.
“They did it at Souilly, too,” said Dook.
“Hell, yes. … A funny thing happened there. The hospital was in a big rambling house, looked like an Atlantic City hotel. … We used to run our car in back and sleep in it. It was where we took the shell-shock cases, fellows who were roarin’ mad, and tremblin’ all over, and some of ’em paralysed like. … There was a man in the wing opposite where we slept who kept laughin’. Bill Rees was on the car with me, and we laid in our blankets in the bottom of the car and every now and then one of us’ld turn over and whisper: ‘Ain’t this hell, kid?’ ’cause that feller kept laughin’ like a man who had just heard a joke that was so funny he couldn’t stop laughin’. It wasn’t like a crazy man’s laugh usually is. When I first heard it I thought it was a man really laughin’, and I guess I laughed too. But it didn’t stop. … Bill Rees an’ me laid in our car
“Of who?”
“Of Americans—of us!”
“The hell you say!”
“That’s a goddam lie,” shouted a black-haired man with an ill-shaven jaw, who had just come in. “There ain’t never been an American captured, an’ there never will be, by God!”
“How long were you at the front, buddy,” asked Cohen coolly. “I guess you been to Berlin already, ain’t yer?”
“I say that any man who says an American’ld let himself be captured by a stinkin’ Hun, is a goddam liar,” said the man with the ill-shaven jaw, sitting down sullenly.
“Well, you’d better not say it to me,” said Cohen laughing, looking meditatively at one of his big red fists.
There had been a look of apprehension on Marie’s face. She looked at Cohen’s fist and shrugged her shoulders and laughed.
Another crowd had just slouched into the café.
“Well if that isn’t wild Dan! Hello, old kid, how are you?”
“Hello, Dook!”
A small man in a coat that looked almost like an officer’s coat, it was so well cut, was shaking hands effusively with Cohen. He wore a corporal’s stripes and a British aviator’s fatigue cap. Cohen made room for him on the bench.
“What are you doing in this hole, Dook?”
The man twisted his mouth so that his neat black mustache was a slant.
“G. O. 42,” he said.
“Battle of Paris?” said Cohen in a sympathetic voice.
“Battle of Nice! I’m going back to my section soon. I’d never have got a court-martial if I’d been with my outfit. I was in the Base Hospital 15 with pneumonia.”
“Tough luck!”
“It was a hell of a note.”
“Say, Dook, your outfit was working with ours at Chamfort that time, wasn’t it?”
“You mean when we evacuated the nut hospital?”
“Yes, wasn’t that hell?” Dan Cohen gulped down half a glass of red wine, smacked his thick lips, and began in his story-telling voice:
“Our section had just come out of Verdun where we’d been getting hell for three weeks on the Bras road. There was one little hill where we’d have to get out and shove every damn time, the mud was so deep, and God, it stank there with the shells turning up the ground all full of mackabbies as the poilu call them. … Say, Dook, have you got any money?”
“I’ve got some,” said Dook, without enthusiasm.
“Well, the champagne’s damn good here. I’m part of the outfit in this gin mill; they’ll give it to you at a reduction.”
“All right!”
Dan Cohen turned round and whispered something to Marie. She laughed and dived down behind the curtain.
“But that Chamfort was worse yet. Everybody was sort o’ nervous because the Germans had dropped a message sayin’ they’d give ’em three days to clear the hospital out, and that then they’d shell hell out of the place.”
“The Germans done that! Quit yer kiddin’,” said Fuselli.
“They did it at Souilly, too,” said Dook.
“Hell, yes. … A funny thing happened there. The hospital was in a big rambling house, looked like an Atlantic City hotel. … We used to run our car in back and sleep in it. It was where we took the shell-shock cases, fellows who were roarin’ mad, and tremblin’ all over, and some of ’em paralysed like. … There was a man in the wing opposite where we slept who kept laughin’. Bill Rees was on the car with me, and we laid in our blankets in the bottom of the car and every now and then one of us’ld turn over and whisper: ‘Ain’t this hell, kid?’ ’cause that feller kept laughin’ like a man who had just heard a joke that was so funny he couldn’t stop laughin’. It wasn’t like a crazy man’s laugh usually is. When I first heard it I thought it was a man really laughin’, and I guess I laughed too. But it didn’t stop. … Bill Rees an’ me laid in our car
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