O. D. heard Jimmy tell of buying a suit of underclothes at La Ferté, after his outfit had been taken out of the fight shattered to the bone from continual battling. He judged from the way Jimmy said it that he would remember buying that forty-franc suit of underclothes when his memory of the capture of Hill 190 would grow dim. Jimmy cussed more because the army was unable to give him underclothes at that time than he did over the fact that he had to lug ninety-five-pound shells on a stomach that had been empty for twenty-four hours. O. D. wondered if he would ever be able to understand the life of the front as his new friend Jimmy did. He wondered if there was enough good stuff in him to make him accept his burden of front-line work like the other men who had already gone in and proved themselves. O. D. wondered a hundred things that were all closely associated with the fact that he was about to enter a life that would bring him face to face with supreme sacrifice. Like a hundred thousand other American boys, before and after him, O. D. saw the bigness of the test that awaited every young novice on the battle-field, and he was concerned only with the one question: “Can I make good?” “Well, here we are at Heippes,” said the driver, cutting a story of the capture of Vaux short. “Your outfit’s up ’round Souilly, I think. I turn off here and go out toward Rambluzen. Be good, Jack, and take care of your friend here,” indicating O. D. “_Oui_, bet your life. _Au revoir_, old man,” answered Jimmy. “Thanks,” said O. D. “Not at all, Jack; glad to give you a lift,” shouted the driver, and he was off. “That’s a regular guy,” said Jimmy. “You take any fellow that’s been through what we have and he’s damn glad to help a guy out. He knows himself what it is to be hungry and tired. This old war’s teachin’ a few guys that there’s others in the world besides themselves. Guess it’s time to _monjay_. Take a look for the _café_ here. Hold it here a minute. I’ll ask this M. P. guy where a man can get a bite.” Jimmy headed for an M. P. “Say, Jack, where’s there a place to _monjay_ ’round here?” he asked. “Couldn’t tell you, buddy. Only been here a week,” answered the M. P. “A week,” repeated Jimmy. “What do you have to do, spend a winter in a place to find out where the grub is? Have you seen artillery go by here lately?” “Nope—nothin’ lately—in three days or so.” “What was it, seventy-fives or one hundred and fifty-fives—big or little? What?” “Don’t remember,” answered the M. P. as he motioned a car to go by. “Hell afire, O. D., I knew it. Those M. P.’s don’t even know there’s a _guerre_ goin’ on,” said Jimmy, with disgust. “Follow me, I’ll find somethin’ _toot sweet_,” and Jimmy McGee started toward a house about one hundred feet away. CHAPTER XII—O. D. MEETS JIMMY’S GANG