The faithful, never-tiring nurses patiently remain at their posts, color washed from their cheeks, hands worn, seamed by labor, dark eyes, flashing like stars of a wintry night, unceasingly, they work to bring back to health those who almost died for them. In their sweet, white uniforms, suppressing their own troubles with a jolly smile, they greet and welcome the mud-stained, lousy, dirty poilu and give him an affectionate word—far more efficient, a much better tonic, than medicine. CHAPTER XV AN INCIDENT Early spring, 1916, at Boulogne, dressed, as a French poilu, I stepped off the channel boat from Folkstone, and, hurrying to the railroad station, learned that the express would not leave for Paris till 8 o’clock—a wait of five hours. The day was cold. Snow was blowing around the street corner. The raw sea breeze cut to the marrow. Buttoning a thin overcoat, still crumpled from going through the crumming machine, sure sign of hospital treatment, I walked about aimlessly. “Fish and chips.” Yes, that was what I wanted. I wasn’t hungry, but it must be warm inside. It was also the last chance for some time to indulge in finny luxuries. Lots of water in those long, narrow trenches, skirting “No-Man’s-Land,” but no fish. Grinning, I recalled one cold, heart-breaking morning, when an unseen German yelled across: “Hello, Français, have you the brandy?” “No, have you?” “No, we have not; but we have the water!” We knew that—for we had just drained our trench into theirs. I took my time and when not picking fish bones gazed, reflectively, at the miserable weather outside. I chatted in English with British Tommies and exchanged a few remarks in French with the little waitress. At the cashier’s counter, a stranger, dressed as an English private soldier, rasped out, in an aggressive, authoritative voice. “Here! You speak very good English.” In spite of not liking his tone, I responded, “Oh, I don’t know.” “You don’t know? Well, I know. You speak as good English as I do.” “I don’t know that you have any monopoly on the English language.” “You don’t know, eh, you don’t know? I would like to know what you do know.” ”Well, I know something you don’t.” “What’s that?” “I know enough to mind my own business.” After a few seconds dead silence, the Englishman said, “Who are you?” “That’s my business.” “It’s my business to find out.” “Well, find out.” “Let me see your papers.” “I will not.” “If you don’t let me see your papers, I will take you up to the Base Court.” “You won’t take me any place—understand that?”