“An' I had a bunch of grenades an' a feller came runnin' up to me, whisperin', 'There's a bunch of Fritzies playin' cards in a dugout. They don't seem to know they're captured. We'd better take 'em pris'ners!” “'Pris'ners, hell,' says I, 'We'll go and clear the buggars out.' So we crept along to the steps and looked down.... ” The song had started again: “O Mademerselle from Armenteers, Parley voo? “Their helmets looked so damn like toadstools I came near laughin'. An' they sat round the lamp layin' down the cards serious-like, the way I've seen Germans do in the Rathskeller at home.” “He loved the women and liked the wine, Parley voo? “I lay there lookin' at 'em for a hell of a time, an' then I clicked a grenade an' tossed it gently down the steps. An' all those funny helmets like toadstools popped up in the air an' somebody gave a yell an' the light went out an' the damn grenade went off. Then I let 'em have the rest of 'em an' went away 'cause one o' 'em was still moanin'-like. It was about that time they let their barrage down on us and I got mine.” “The Yanks are havin' a hell of a time, Parley voo? “An' the first thing I thought of when I woke up was how those goddam helmets looked. It upsets a feller to think of a thing like that.” His voice ended in a whine like the broken voice of a child that has been beaten. “You need to pull yourself together, kid,” said his friend. “I know what I need, Tub. I need a woman.” “You know where you get one?” asked Meadville. “I'd like to get me a nice little French girl a rainy night like this.” “It must be a hell of a ways to the town.... They say it's full of M. P.'s too,” said Fuselli. “I know a way,” said the man with the nervous voice, “Come on; Tub.” “No, I've had enough of these goddam frog women.” They all left the canteen. As the two men went off down the side of the building, Fuselli heard the nervous twitching voice through the metallic patter of the rain: “I can't find no way of forgettin' how funny the helmets looked all round the lamp... I can't find no way.... ” Bill Grey and Fuselli pooled their blankets and slept together. They lay on the hard floor of the tent very close to each other, listening to the rain pattering endlessly on the drenched canvas that slanted above their heads. “Hell, Bill, I'm gettin' pneumonia,” said Fuselli, clearing his nose. “That's the only thing that scares me in the whole goddam business. I'd hate to die o' sickness... an' they say another kid's kicked off with that--what d'they call it?--menegitis.” “Was that what was the matter with Stein?” “The corporal won't say.” “Ole Corp. looks sort o' sick himself,” said Fuselli. “It's this rotten climate” whispered Bill Grey, in the middle of a fit of coughing. “For cat's sake quit that coughin'. Let a feller sleep,” came a voice from the other side of the tent. “Go an' get a room in a hotel if you don't like it.”