Jimmy’s words, and the bread and jam that the Yankee Division V handed out, did a lot to send the spirits of O. D. shooting up the ladder of hope. Perhaps the war and the front wasn’t going to be so terrible, after all he had read about it. Surely not, if it had a bunch of fellows up there like Jimmy McGee, thought O. D. “Gosh, I was hungry! This stuff is saving my life,” admitted O. D., gladly, as he left trailing evidence of the _confiture_ around the corners of his lips. “Since I got lost from my detail last night I haven’t had a thing to eat.... I can’t talk this French, so I was out of luck for breakfast. I was just thinking about breaking into this stuff”—and he showed his emergency rations of “corned willy” and hardtack—“but the officer told me that I was not to touch them unless it was a case of absolute emergency,” concluded O. D. “_Bon—très-beans!_ Take his advice, boy: never touch that stuff unless you are up against it mighty hard. Just a little of that embalmed mule will kill any good man. Guess my stomach got used to it, as I’ve been eatin’ it for damn near six months straight. I’ll get us a regular feed when we hit a village to-night. Leave it to me.” “Can you talk this lingo?” asked O. D., as if it were beyond possibilities to juggle the language of the French around on an American tongue. “_Oui_, not _beaucoup_. _Cum see—cum saw_,” he replied, indicating a very little bit by his hands. “But I can _parley_ enough to get a feed and a place to _cushay_. You know _cushay_ means sleep and _monjay_ means eat. That’s about all you got to know. And _combien_—that’s how much. They’ll tell you that _toot sweet_.” “How the dickens do I get a drink of water?—I’m about dying of thirst. Haven’t had a drop of water in three days, since we left the replacement camp.” “Oh, my God, man! You’re in the wrong place to get water. The French don’t use that stuff at all. They think we’re nuts when we ask for water to drink. You got to get used to that vinegar that they call _van blanc_ or _van rouge_. Here, take a swig of this stuff.” Jimmy unscrewed the cork from his French canteen and offered it to O. D. “What’s in it?” “Oh, some of their old, rotten _van rouge_—red wine, you know. But it’s better than nothin’.” O. D. took a swallow, made a hard face and let a little more go down, then he handed it back with the remark that it was sour. “_Oui_, but _say la guerre_. Gotta get used to that stuff, I guess,” and he nearly drained the canteen. “Smoke?” he asked, pulling out a package of bruised Lucky Strikes. “No, thanks.” “You’ll get the habit after you’ve been up with us awhile. Nothin’ like a cigarette, boy, in them damp dugouts when you’re waitin’ for some party to come off.” After the old blue smoke began to issue from his mouth and nostrils Jimmy felt a bit talkative. “So you goin’ to be an artilleryman, eh?”