The Stars and Stripes Part 16

"Danger? h.e.l.l! What'd we come over for, a Sunday school picnic? No, when you come right down to it there isn't much. If we get the tip, we just crawl into the dugouts along the road, and shuffle the pasteboards until we get the signal that the party is over. I've had livelier times 'n this out west, with washouts and wrecks and beatin' off a crowd of greasers from the tracks when they went wild, many a time. No, sir, war hasn't got much new in the movie thrill line for a railroad man!"

AH! THOSE FRENCH!

"Mademoiselle, tell me: What is the difference between you and a major-general?"

"_Mais, oui, m'sieur_, there are many differences; which one does _m'sieur_ mean?"

[Ill.u.s.tration]

"Ah, Mademoiselle, the general, he has stars upon his shoulders; but you--you, mademoiselle, have the stars in your eyes!"

SHAVING IN FRANCE.

The order says, "Shave every other day." Now you, personally, may need to shave every day; or you may need to shave as often as twice a day; or, again, you may be one of those lucky and youthful souls who really don't need to shave oftener than once a week. But, as the order makes the every-other-day shave obligatory, you, no matter what cla.s.sification you may fall under, decide to compromise on the every-other-day shave.

In that way, and in that way only, can discipline be maintained and a pleasing variety of growths up and down the comp'ny front be secured.

The order being such as it is, you dispense with washing your face every day. You wash your face on your non-shaving day, and on your shaving day you let the shave take the place of the wash. To be sure, if you are a generous latherer you have to wash your face all over, including the remote portions behind the ears, after you get through shaving; but, being anxious to save time and economize water--thus living up to another order--you never count that in as a real wash. When writing home, you say simply that you wash and shave on alternate days.

A Use for Helmets.

To begin the shaving process, you secure a basin full or a tin helmet full of water--such water as the countryside affords. Usually it is dirty; sometimes in the regions bordering on what has been in German hands since 1914, it minutely resembles the drink that Gunga Dhin brought to his suffering Tommy friend. You remember:

"It was crawly and it stunk."

At that, you can't blame it for being crawly and stinking if it had been anywhere near the Boche.

If you are in billets or barracks, and there is a stove therein both handy and going, and if all the epicures and snappy dressers in the squad are not trying to toast their bread or thaw out their shoes or dry their socks on top of it at the same time, you may be allowed to heat your shaving water--if it can be called water--on said stove. If you are allowed to--which again is doubtful--you are generally saddled with the job of being squad stove-stoker for the rest of the day. This is a confining occupation, and hard on the eyes.

If, however, you are in neither billets nor barracks, but in the open somewhere or if there is no fire in the stove, or, if somebody else has got first licks at it, and you don't fit with the cook of the mess sergeant so as to be able to borrow a cup of hot water out of the coffee tank--why, there is nothing left to do but shave in cold water. This is hard on the face, the temper and the commandment against cussing. Also, if you neglected to import your shaving soap from the States and had to buy it over here, it may mean that you are out of luck on lather.

Anyway, after quite a while of fussing around, you get started. You smear your face with something approaching lather if you've got hot water, with a sticky, milky substance that resembles, more than anything else, a coating of lumpy office paste. This done, and rubbed in a bit around the corners, you begin to hoe.

Indoor vs. Outdoor Shaving.

In billet shaving, somebody is always trying to climb into the bunk above over your slightly bent back while you shave--for it is impossible to get your little trench mirror directly in front of your face while you are in an upright position. In outdoor shaving--usually performed in the middle of a village square, near the town fountain--one is invariably b.u.mped from behind by one of the lowing kine or frolicsome colts peculiar to the region; to say nothing of a stray auto truck or ambulance which may have broken loose from its moorings. These gentle digs, of course, produce far less gentle digs in one's countenance. In this way, America's soldiers, long before they reach the front, are inured to the sight of blood.

After you have sc.r.a.ped off a sufficient amount of beard to show a sufficient amount of skin to convince the Top, when he eyes you over, that you have actually shaved, you shake the lather off your razor and brush, dab what is left of the original water over the torn parts of your face, seize the opportunity, while you have the mirror before you, of combing your hair with your fingernails, and b.u.t.ton your shirt collar. The performance concluded, you are good for forty-eight hours more, having a perfect _alibi_ if anyone comments on your facial growth.

You are not, however, in any condition to attend a revival meeting or to bless the power-that-be who condemned you to having to shave in France.

CRUSADERS.

Richard Coeur de Lion was a soldier and a king; He carried lots of hefty tools with which his foes to bing; He cased himself in armor tough--neck, shoulder, waist, and knee: But Richard, old Coeur de Lion, didn't have a thing on me.

For while old Coeur de Lion may have worn an iron casque, He never had to tote around an English gas-proof mask; He never galled himself with packs that weigh about a ton, Nor--lucky Richard--did he have to clean a beastly gun.

'Tis true he wore a helmet to protect himself from boulders, But then, he had good rest for it upon his s.p.a.cious shoulders; While my tin hat is balanced on the peak of my bare dome, And after marching with it--gee! I wish that I were home!

His feet were cased in metal shoes, in length about a yard, Which, since they were so big, I bet did not go on as hard As Uncle Sam'yal's dancing pumps that freeze so stiff at night That donning them at reveille is sure an awful fright.

He never had to pull a Ford from out of muddy ruts-- Although his breastplate warded spears from off his royal guts, His Nibs was never forced to face the fire of "forty-twos"

And tear gas would have given him an awful case of blues.

He always rode a charger, while I travel on shanks' mare; He messed on wine and venison; I eat far humbler fare.

I'll grant he was some fencer with his doughty snickersnee, But Richard Coeur de Lion didn't have a thing on me!

YES, THEY'RE A FEW.

Green Sentry: "Turn out the guard--Officer of the Day!"

(Officer of the Day promptly salutes, indicating, "As you were!")

Green Sentry: "Never mind the Officer of the Day!"

FASHION HINTS FOR DOUGHBOYS

By BRAN MASH.