Jimmy McGee and O. D., alias William G. Preston, made a great contrast as they plodded up and down hill along the tree-lined route over which passed in 1914 the stream of Paris taxicabs that brought French poilus to the heights of Verdun in time for Papa Joffre to stop the mad advance of the Prussians. To the uninitiated, O. D., with his regulation pack and uniform equipment, would most likely have been immediately picked for the better soldier of the two. Jimmy McGee, habitué of the ragged battle-lines, and showing the wear and tear of fighting in everything about him, save his eyes, would have been dubbed a slouch. Which just goes to prove how different are the standards of measurements and worth that obtain at the front and in the S. O. S. Everything and everybody at the front is discounted until nothing but naked realities show. There is no chance for the superficial to flourish in the trenches and gun positions. The pair had made about three kilometers when the sound of an approaching auto warned Jimmy McGee to take to the bushes. He lost no time in getting off the road. O. D. followed him with the statement that he believed it was a general’s limousine coming. “Let it come—we don’t need to see it. Just sit down and look the other way. No use tryin’ to break our arms with that salutin’ stuff,” was the reply. Both men sat down facing the woods. There was a sound of tires scraping the road, under pressure of quickly applied brakes. A door opened and slammed shut. “What outfit are you men from?” The question was asked in a heavy, steady voice. McGee and O. D. stood up and faced about to find themselves confronted by a major-general. They saluted. McGee spoke up. “Twenty-sixth Division, sir.” “What are you doing straggling along this road?” asked the general. “Just returnin’ to our outfits from the hospital, sir,” lied McGee, with a feeling of glory. “All right, men.” The man with two stars on his shoulders stepped back into the warmth and luxury of his chugging motor and was off in a swirl of dust that nearly choked the two soldiers. McGee caught himself in the act of reaching for his old, battle-scarred gas-mask. “Gee! he was a major-general,” declared O. D. in an awed voice; “did you see the two stars on his straps?” gasped the newcomer to Jimmy’s hunting-grounds. “_Oui_, I noticed them all right, but they didn’t mean nothin’ to me. Generals don’t count much up there,” pointing in the general direction of the front. “We see plenty of other things that’s more interestin’. Course, you know, I generally salute officers from brigadier-generals up—that is, when they see me first; but you get used to havin’ ’em around you,” was Jimmy’s rejoinder. “First time I ever had a general speak to me,” admitted O. D.