the station yard. It had been a
long, fifteen hour night ride and the cramped quarters of the troop
train had permitted but little sleep. There was no opportunity for them
to breakfast or wash before they were put on exhibition. Naturally, they
were somewhat nervous.

The standing line was ordered to produce its mess cups and hold them
forward. Down the line came a bevy of pretty French girls, wearing the
uniform of Red Cross nurses. They carried canisters of black coffee and
baskets of cigarettes. They ladled out steaming cupfuls of the black
liquid to the men. The incident gave our men their first surprise.

Rum or alcohol has never been a part of the United States army ration.
In the memory of the oldest old-timers in the ranks of our old regular
army, "joy water" had never been issued. On the other hand, its use had
always been strictly forbidden in the company messes. Our men never
expected it. Thus it was that, with no other idea occurring to them,
they extended their mess cups to be filled with what they thought was
simply strong hot coffee. Not one of them had the slightest suspicion
that the French cooks who had prepared that coffee for their new
American brothers in arms, had put a stick in it--had added just that
portion of cognac which they had considered necessary to open a man's
eyes and make him pick up his heels after a long night in a troop train.

I watched one old-timer in the ranks as he lifted the tin cup to his
lips and took the initial gulp. Then he lowered the cup. Across his face
there dawned first an expression of curious suspicion, then a look of
satisfied recognition, and then a smile of pleased surprise, which he
followed with an audible smacking of the lips. He finished the cup and
allowed quite casually that he could stand another.

"So this is Paris,"--well, it wasn't half bad to start with. With that
"coffee" under their belts, the men responded snappily to the march
order, and in column of four, they swung into line and moved out of the
station yard, at the heels of their own band, which played a stirring
marching air.

Paris claimed them for her own. All that the war had left of Paris' gay
life, all the lights that still burned, all the music that still played,
all the pretty smiles that had never been reduced in their quality or
quantity, all that Paris had to make one care-free and glad to be
alive--all belonged that day to that pioneer band of American
infantrymen.

The women