"From the stand, from the Knickerbocker Club across the street, from the nearby residences and from the curbing sounded shouts of individual greetings for the commander and his staff. But these were quickly drowned as a roar went up for Lieutenant Europe's band, with its commander at the head--not swinging a baton like a common ordinary drum-major, but walking along with the uniform and side-arms of an officer. "'The Salute to the 85th,' which they learned from their comrade regiment of the French Army of General Gouraud, was what they were playing, a stirring thing full of bugle calls and drum rolls, which Europe says is the best march he ever heard. "So swiftly did the platoons sweep by that it took a quick eye to recognize a brother or a son or a lover or a husband; but the eyes in the stand were quick, and there were shouts of 'Oh, Bill!' 'Hey, boy, here's your mammy!' 'Oliver, look at your baby!' (It wasn't learned whether this referred to a feminine person or one of those posthumous children Colonel Hayward spoke about.) 'Hallelujah, Sam! There you are, back home again!' "Half way down the ranks of the 2,992 paraders appeared the colors, and all hats came off with double reverence, for the Stars and Stripes and the blue regimental standard that two husky ebony lads held proudly aloft had been carried from here to France, from France to Germany and back again, and each bore the bronze token with its green and red ribbon that is called the Croix de Guerre. Keen eyes could see these little medals swinging from the silk of the flags, high toward the top of the poles. "At the end of the lines which filled the avenue came a single automobile, first, with a round-faced smiling white officer sitting in it and gazing happily from side to side. This was Major Lorillard Spencer, who was so badly wounded that he came back in advance of the outfit some weeks ago. There was a special racket of cheers for him, and then another for Major David L. 'Esperance, also wounded and riding. "Then a far different figure, but one of the most famous of the whole war. Henry Johnson! That Henry, once a mild-mannered chauffeur, who to protect his comrade, Needham Roberts, waded into a whole patrol of 'bush Germans' with a lot of hand grenades, his rifle and his trusty 'steel' in the shape of a bolo knife, and waded into them so energetically that when the casualties were counted there were four dead foemen in front of him, thirty-four others done up so badly they couldn't even crawl away, and heaven knows how many more had been put to flight.