"
Away flew the German over the top, head over heels, not unassisted: and
after they had laughed awhile, his hosts and foes forgot him. But not so
could he forget them. That night, after dark, he came trotting back with
fifteen friends, all crying "Kamerad!" eager to deliver themselves up to
captivity for the flesh-pots of Egypt.
"But--we're not to go without a glimpse of the Sammies, are we?" I
asked, when stories and champagne were finished.
The "Sammies'" officers laughed. "The boys don't love that name, you
know! But it sticks like a burr. It's harder to get rid of than the
Boches. As for seeing them--(the boys, not the Boches!) _well_----" And
a consultation followed.
The trenches beyond our dug-out drawing room could not be guaranteed
"safe as the Bank of England" for non-combatants that day, and no one
wanted to be responsible for our venturing farther. Still, if we
couldn't go to the boys, a "bunch" of the boys could come to us. A
lieutenant dashed away, and presently returned with six of the tallest,
brownest, best-looking young men I ever saw. Their khaki and their
beautiful new helmets were so like British khaki and helmets that I
shouldn't have been expert enough to recognize them as American. But
somehow the merest amateur would never have mistaken those boys for
their British brothers. I can't tell where the difference lay. All I can
say is that it was there. Were their jaws squarer? No, it couldn't have
been that, for British jaws are firm enough, and have need to be, Heaven
knows! Were their chins more prominent? But millions of British chins
are prominent.
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