“Well, we don’t give this chocolate away!” said the man, turning up a corner of his long, sallow face. “How much is it?” “It’s half a franc, that’s what it is.” Hicks was about to put down the mug of chocolate, when a soldier from the First Regular division stepped forward and offered him the money, and then faced the man behind the counter. “You’re a fine dirty slacker, you are. These men have been out in the trenches for heaven knows how long, and they come back dog-tired and hungry, and you refuse to give them a glass of your skimmed chocolate.” “Oh, never mind,” said Hicks. “You know the kind he is. Why talk to him?” He went back to the bunk house, found his bed, and crawled into it, not stopping to undress. * * * * * For five hours the platoon had slept. When dawn, like a fifty-year-old virgin, was showing its hard, cold face, the men had stumbled down into the valley of Bois La Vec. After waiting outside for half an hour they were permitted to enter one of the long, low, vermin-infested bunk houses which lay in the valley. From their sleepless nights on sentry duty, their lack of food, and the long, punishing march from the trenches, they were thoroughly exhausted. Many of the men were in such a state of fatigue that they dropped on the straw beds which had been provided for the French army in 1914, without stopping to take off their muddy shoes. And they slept dreamlessly, sodden beings with senses so dulled they could not think of food. The mess sergeant had passed through the bunk house, loudly and virtuously asserting that the daily fare was to be had. Not one of the men had stirred. A large touring-car, its wind-shield placarded with two white stars cut in a field of red, drove down the valley along the gravel road, and turned toward the bunk houses where the soldiers who preferred sleep to food—and they had not tasted of food for twenty-four hours—were lying. The motor stopped, and a lieutenant, with a curled mustache, leaned a trifle forward from his seat beside the chauffeur and called: “Where is the sentry of this camp?” There was no answer. The lieutenant stepped out of the car and strode precisely and firmly toward the bunk house. He spoke loudly. “Where is the sentry of this camp?” Most of the men were too sleepy even to curse at the intruder. One or two voices impolitely commanded him to “shut up,” and one voice mumbled: “Where do you think you are at, anyway?” Enraged at this disrespect, the lieutenant decided not to leave until he had aroused some one. Sergeant Harriman, who for once had been forced to sleep with the common soldiers, awakened, and, seeing the lieutenant with the insignia upon his collar worn by officers attached to the General Staff, dived from his bunk like a jack-rabbit, saluting before his feet touched the ground. The lieutenant roared: “Where is your company commander?” “I’ll get him, sir!” And Sergeant Harriman scurried off.