“Don’t you worry, pappy. We’ll get your home back for you,” called a voice from one of the camions. The sentiment was taken up and voiced by a great number. Through the warm glow of the spirit of the crusader that it gave them, all other emotions were submerged. Mirrors in ornate frames apparently had a special significance for the refugees. Not one of them but had carefully salvaged his mirror and was displaying it, safely bound to the bedclothing with which the cart was loaded down. Every one of the refugees seemed also to have a large feather bed, and among the property that they were carrying away from their deserted homes was often to be noticed a round glass cover under which was a wedding-cake or a carved miniature of an old-fashioned man and maid dancing a minuet. * * * * * It was night, and many of the men had gone to sleep. The camions stopped abruptly, and the awakened men, trying vainly to unlimber their stiffened muscles, laboriously made their way to the ground. Hicks had been one of the first men to leave the camion. Now he walked around in front of it. Funny, there were no other camions before him! He ran to the rear and down the road a few paces. No camions there either. “Hey, fellows! we’re lost.” “Lost? And up here? What the hell are we going to do?” “I don’t give a damn if we are lost. I need a vacation, anyway.” “Pipe down, damn it. You can’t tell how near we are to the German lines.” “Yeh, and that Jap might be a German spy. We better watch out.” They were still talking when Sergeant Ryan arrived. He had left the truck when it stopped. Walking ahead, he had found a deserted village. “Well, fellahs. You better get down out of there and come with me. There are plenty of places to sleep right up ahead, and as it looks like we’re lost, that’s what we’d better do.” Sergeant Ryan always talked as if he were about to chuckle. Ever since the platoon had been formed Sergeant Ryan had been held up to the entire company, and often to the battalion, as the best-looking soldier readily to be found. Even in the trenches his nails were manicured, the nails of his long, sensitive fingers. His small, pointed mustache looked as if it had been freshly waxed. His puttees were rolled neatly about his smart-looking legs. And he could drink all night, and, to the eye, not be affected by it. “We’ll foller Ryan any place, won’t we, guys?” “You’re damned right.” They gathered together their equipment and started after him down the road. It was a very small town and had been evacuated two days before. No matter if the feather beds had been taken away, there was plenty of dry hay to sleep on. Morning came and Sergeant Ryan was awake and engaged in rousing the men. After they had all been found, he assembled them on the street and issued orders: