Somewhere in France Gabby swung his right mitt and clasped Casey's. They hung on in a kind of reminiscent grip, searching one another's face for changes. Casey wore a smudge on his upper lip. Gabby's face was still un-hairy, but a little lined by the last few years of bucking the business line for a living. Casey has no cause for wrinkles, having a wealthy Dad. And, anyway, Fat's disposition proofed his map against the corrugations of money problems. We find them shaking hands again. Casey is driving a touring car over from Divisional Headquarters to call for the major of the Third Battalion. He stalls on the hill from dirty distributor points and gets out to sand-paper them. That red-headed sentry, gazing skyward through field glasses on "aeroplane watch" against the Boches, can be none other than Gabby, the ex-right tackle. Gabby is a little puzzled by Fat's moustache, but only for a second. "Whatever became of Charley Rose," he asks, "and Bill Lyman, and all the rest of them?" "For the love of Mike--meeting you in this forsaken spot after all this time! Where are you stationed? Can't we stage a reunion? Can't we, Fat?" Well, Fat is a sergeant-chauffeur, Q.M.C. Gabby is a doughboy in an infantry regiment. They can't get together. They're at the War. For the next ten minutes a whole battlefield of Boche fliers might have sneaked past the Chicago sentry and bombed the daylights out of Division Headquarters without any hindrance from Gabby. Charley Rose, says Fat, is an infantry lieutenant. Maury Dunne's in the heavy artillery. Dan McCarthy, the hopeless but untiring "sub" of the 1911 squad, is in France in the Q.M.C. "Well, doggone!" says Fat, in wonderment at the littleness of the world. "Well, gee whiz!" says Gabby, thinking the same thing. You'll meet 'em all over here--your old rivals, your staunchest pals. You may find yourself top sergeant over the very kids you stole apples or milk bottles with back in the "good old days." Perhaps you'll be saluting the fellow who cut you out of your girl back in high school when an exchange of class pins with pretty Frances Black meant that you were engaged to her for that semester. Somewhere in France, they're all here. ---- SO THIS IS FRANCE? ---- The first shift is coming out from the tables. White-haired plump Madame scurries over to her place at the door to collect the dinner toll. Silver clinks into her country cash register, a cigar box with the lid knocked off. The second shift edges toward the dining room where Suzanne and Angel and Joan are rushing about, clearing away the traces of the first service. "How's the chewin'?" asks the Albany rifleman. "Pretty good, pretty good," says the engineer boy from Los Angeles. "Good place to fill up on tan bread for a change."