“I was just thinking, ‘me for the coop,’” genially continued the biggest, raw-boned, lantern-jawed one who had a bad bronchial cold and wore a muffler about his throat. He turned out to be from Omaha; the smaller one was from Hackensack, N.J. (with an emphasis on the N.J.). We talked about simple and unglorious matters, what they had for breakfast, among other things, and it was, in parenthesis, what any Frenchman would call a dinner—ham and eggs and oatmeal and white bread (which none save American soldiers get in France these days) and jam and coffee. They were from Pagny-sur-Meuse near by—pronounced “Pag-ni” by the Omaha man. The Hackensack man avoided it. He quite simply wanted “the war to begin,” so that he might “show the Germans how.” “We’re sure to lick ’em in the spring,” the one with the cold said, “but it’s a long time waiting for the fun to begin, and I haven’t been warm since I got here.” I asked them how they came into France. “All I know is that after we got off the boat we were three days in some sort of a milk-train; there wasn’t room to sit, let alone lie. We drew lots and I got the baggage-rack; but what saved us was that we could get out at every station, and, believe me, the fellows that got drunk were the only ones that pulled in all right—the others were sent up to hospital soon as they arrived.” In the best and most persuasive of Y.M.C.A. manners I said to this special Miles Gloriosus: “It isn’t a remedy, however, that you could really count on.” “But I say,” answered the Omaha man, “you’ll own up that it’s worth trying.” It was getting late and, the Omaha man having the best of it, we parted with smiles of mutual appreciation. It’s all so simple—and so momentous.