Anyway, after quite a while of fussing around, you get started. You smear your face with something approaching lather if you've got hot water, with a sticky, milky substance that resembles, more than anything else, a coating of lumpy office paste. This done, and rubbed in a bit around the corners, you begin to hoe. Indoor vs. Outdoor Shaving. In billet shaving, somebody is always trying to climb into the bunk above over your slightly bent back while you shave--for it is impossible to get your little trench mirror directly in front of your face while you are in an upright position. In outdoor shaving--usually performed in the middle of a village square, near the town fountain--one is invariably bumped from behind by one of the lowing kine or frolicsome colts peculiar to the region; to say nothing of a stray auto truck or ambulance which may have broken loose from its moorings. These gentle digs, of course, produce far less gentle digs in one's countenance. In this way, America's soldiers, long before they reach the front, are inured to the sight of blood. After you have scraped off a sufficient amount of beard to show a sufficient amount of skin to convince the Top, when he eyes you over, that you have actually shaved, you shake the lather off your razor and brush, dab what is left of the original water over the torn parts of your face, seize the opportunity, while you have the mirror before you, of combing your hair with your fingernails, and button your shirt collar. The performance concluded, you are good for forty-eight hours more, having a perfect _alibi_ if anyone comments on your facial growth. You are not, however, in any condition to attend a revival meeting or to bless the power-that-be who condemned you to having to shave in France. ---- CRUSADERS. ---- Richard Coeur de Lion was a soldier and a king; He carried lots of hefty tools with which his foes to bing; He cased himself in armor tough--neck, shoulder, waist, and knee: But Richard, old Coeur de Lion, didn't have a thing on me. For while old Coeur de Lion may have worn an iron casque, He never had to tote around an English gas-proof mask; He never galled himself with packs that weigh about a ton, Nor--lucky Richard--did he have to clean a beastly gun. 'Tis true he wore a helmet to protect himself from boulders, But then, he had good rest for it upon his spacious shoulders; While my tin hat is balanced on the peak of my bare dome, And after marching with it--gee! I wish that I were home! His feet were cased in metal shoes, in length about a yard, Which, since they were so big, I bet did not go on as hard As Uncle Sam'yal's dancing pumps that freeze so stiff at night That donning them at reveille is sure an awful fright.