“I’m going to breeze ’round a bit. If it’s straight dope I’ll blow up to the position. Want to get a picture of O. D.’s grave. Camouflage me if any of them guys get wonderin’ where I am. The old wing’s gettin’ _très-bon_ now, anyhow. They might just as well let me go back to the battery,” and Jimmy took his bandaged left arm out of its sling just to prove his words. “Go on, I’ll cover you up,” said the orderly. Jimmy wandered through the different barracks of the regimental _échelon_ and finally landed at Headquarters Office. “What’s the dope, Barney?” asked Jimmy of a bespectacled sergeant who sat humped over a desk full of morning reports. “The _guerre_ is _finee_ at eleven o’clock,” was the answer in slow, methodic tones. [Illustration: “I WANT TO GET A PICTURE OF O. D.’s GRAVE”] “Guess it’s straight enough if Barney believes it,” muttered Jimmy, closing the door. He found Joyce, borrowed a pocket camera from him, and started for the front. Jimmy evaded Verdun and picked the straight road from Thierville to Bras. From Bras he intended following the muddy trail that led directly to the present position of his outfit. A continuous stream of nondescript traffic flowed past him going in the direction of the _échelons_. Captured Boche wagons, ammunition limbers, ration-trucks, caissons, staff cars, and ambulances were some of the vehicles that passed Jimmy as he plodded along. Their presence on the road at ten-thirty in the morning was a significant thing in itself. He knew that such heavy traffic was forbidden on roads that were under enemy fire during the hours of daylight. But the rattle and clatter of the motley traffic could not drown out the fury of the American bombardment. “Well, it’s _finee_, old man,” shouted a man in fatigue clothes riding a balky mule. “_Oui_,” responded Jimmy, unenthusiastically. At Bras Jimmy stopped at one of the ambulance stations to watch them load on some boys who had just been wounded. “Where the hell are you bound? The _guerre’s finee_.” Jimmy looked at the speaker. He was Mike Merrowitz, of his own outfit. “Goin’ up to the battery. What the hell did you do to your arm, Mike?” “Nothin’ much. Was mendin’ a broken wire early this mornin’ and a piece of shell got me there. Doc said they might have to cut it off at the elbow. But I don’t believe it’s that bad. Remember my tellin’ you that I’d go through this _guerre_ and get walloped on the last day? Well, the damn thing is _finee_, anyhow. Take care, Jimmy,” he admonished, looking at his bandaged arm. Jimmy McGee could only nod his answer. The idea that a man could go through the war as long as Mike had and then get hit during the last minute of play was beyond him. He began wondering if it was all a mistake about the _guerre_ being finished. The banging of the guns certainly didn’t help him to renew his faith in all the statements that he had heard to the effect that fighting would end at eleven o’clock.