"The sound of my own voice woke me up, and I found that a man next to me had hauled off and binged me one in his sleep. It was a joke, and we both laughed after we got wise to ourselves. Wonder you didn't hear me yowl." "I've heard so many different kinds of yowls since I landed in this jug that I'm used to 'em. Well, it's a great life if you don't weaken." Jimmy yawned and, reaching for his water bottle, took a long drink. "Hope we stop somewhere soon," he observed. "I've emptied this bottle, and I'm still thirsty." Shortly afterward his wish for a speedy detrainment was granted. A series of jolts, which caused the imprisoned Sammies to behave like nine-pins, except that they had not sufficient space to topple over, and the famous "Eight Horses" came at last to a full stop. Freed at last, the Khaki Boys gladly hustled from the ungracious box-cars to the platform of a village station, dotted as usual with the friendly French folk, whom the Khaki Boys had noticed were always in evidence wherever they went. The two detachments of Uncle Sam's boys had hardly left the train, however, before they discovered that for once they were not the center of attraction. Waiting on the platform to enter the train they had just left was a company of slightly wounded French soldiers returning from active service on the firing line. Though these men were still able to walk, they presented a pitiful sight. With arms or heads bound up in blood-stained bandages, their faces wan and racked by pain, they brought home to the full the grim horror of the trenches. Yet nearly every face wore an attempt at a smile. Bandaged heads made gay attempts at nodding to the villagers who were worshiping at their shrine in true French fashion. One man whose arms were both bound up, blood trickling from his face, bent painfully down to speak to a little boy who was shouting lustily, "_Vive la France_," and waving a little French flag at the wrecked heroes. Watching the little scene in fascinated horror, it occurred briefly to Jimmy that for fighters these men were a curious-looking lot. Accustomed to the olive drab uniform and the usually clean-shaven face of the Sammy, these whiskered _poilus_ with their red trousers and long blue coats pinned back from the front seemed strangely unlike soldiers. Their bandaged heads and arms, and scratched, bleeding faces told quite a different story, however. They had known what it was to be under fire. They had done their bit for France. Ardent as was the admiration shown for these wounded soldiers, the Khaki Boys were not slighted. As they formed into platoons and marched away from the station, they were wildly applauded by the gathered throng, part of which followed along after them.