Class J 
 
 Book.. 
 
 GojjynglitTi"^ 
 
 COHfRrCHT DEPOSm 
 
/ 
 
 Copyrighted 1919, by 
 SERGT. D. G. ROWSE 
 
First Printed: December, 1918 
 
 m 30 I9i9 
 
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 -J^-oyr^jA: ±cr Z. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 FRANK K. KANE COMPANY 
 PUBLISHERS 
 

 ^^^ 
 
 MILITARY COURTESIES 
 
 The authors salute the reader (in two 
 counts) and present their compliments. 
 
 In case he should wish to have it, the in- 
 formation is submitted that one of us is now 
 located at Camp Custer, Mich. ; the other at 
 Fort Hancock, New Jersey, w^here he is night 
 editor (i. e., when oflF duty) of the post 
 magazine. 
 
 We met through being in the same Army. 
 Otherwise we might never have got 
 
 acquainted! 
 
 (Corporal) M. T. KOPSCO, 
 (S..geHnt) D. G. ROWSE. 
 
 • CI.A512229 
 
To The Boys 
 
 and their friends 
 and relatives 
 
 The General Public 
 
A is the ARMY at that stage of your 
 young life when you were on w^hat the 
 Army calls "the outside." You were 
 still wearing suspenders, and going around 
 'looking at things over the top of a linen 
 collar. If you had been told that Czyerznski 
 only ducked a spell in the jug by hand- 
 shciking with the top-kick due to going 
 AWOL, and that they handed him six K. P.'s 
 .anyw^ay, and a week on old guard, you 
 couldn't have passed on the merits of the 
 case. In fact, when those posters about see- 
 ing the w^orld got you, you were so green as 
 to be practically invisible on the parade 
 ground. Hitherto your only acquaintance 
 with Reveille was wondering how^ to spell 
 it; and until they made you stand it occa- 
 sionally, Retreat meant the same to you as 
 it does to von Hindenburg. 
 
 But by the time your new shoes, russet 
 (as they are described on your clothing slip) 
 were through squeaking, you had learned 
 quite a bit, and some of it is shown in the 
 following pages. 
 
 [9] 
 
B stands for Bunk Fatigue — the only kind 
 of fatigue that is really popular. No one 
 enthuses over the other kinds, but Bunk 
 Fatigue is always tackled with a rush. 
 Everything tends to fall flat in a barrack, you 
 might say, including the occupants. After 
 all, this is a very horizontal war. 
 
 Bunk Fatigue is not to be confused with 
 official unconsciousness, following "lights 
 out." It is not recognized in Army Regula- 
 tions or Standing Orders. Particularly 
 Standing Orders. It simply fits into odd 
 chinks in the day that the schedule-makers 
 have overlooked. It is grabbed off. That 
 makes it all the more desirable. 
 
 Severe sunburn, fore and aft, is the only 
 thing that will keep the fellows walking 
 around in leisure moments. 
 
 [13] 
 
Cis the art of spending 24 hours doping 
 out the attire in which you will leave 
 the camp on the pass you have coming. 
 Yes, Camouflage is the word. There is de- 
 picted on the preceding page an authentic 
 specimen of the species "w^eek-end officer," 
 w^ho while on duty, is always an emphatic 
 private, but whose barrack bag always con- 
 tains a garrison cap, linen collar, spiral or 
 leather puttees, and sundry other aids to a 
 36-hour commission. The boys don't mind 
 him, and he figures that folks on the outside 
 are not on. 
 
 Characteristics: Intimate knowledge of 
 Army Regulations on questions of uniform, 
 and a marked dislike of Military Police. 
 Habitat: Some Gay White Way, either in 
 New York or wherever he happens to be. 
 
 [17] 
 
Dis the Army Doctor, who is a skeptic 
 by habit. After one treatment any 
 desire you may have had to put your 
 name in at sick call is lessened. The Army 
 way is a kind of pooling of the ailments of 
 the bunch that show up at sick call, and the 
 Medical Corps orderly sees to it that you get 
 the other fellow's throat gargle and he gets 
 your O. D. pills. But you find yourself feel- 
 ing better even before the medical looey has 
 asked you what "your trouble is" and he 
 speeds up your convalescence by marking 
 you "Duty" on the sick report. "Duty" 
 amounts to the Scotch verdict of "Not 
 Proven." 
 
 Missouri has produced more Army doc- 
 tors than any state in the Union. 
 
 [21] 
 
Eis an Enemy you can't beat. Look at 
 his hands, anyway! His insignia is an 
 idle pick or a shovel that isn't doing 
 anything, and he comes at you in as many 
 ways as there are Army Regulations. Old 
 von Fatigue is liable to infilade you before 
 the ink is dry on your enlistment papers, and 
 even before you have draw^n your first set 
 of woolen O. D.'s, and he keeps after you 
 right along. His specialty is breaking up 
 any detachments that are supported only by 
 their bunks. 
 
 Though disguised in a suit of blue denims, 
 he is none other than our old friend of 
 civilian days. Hard Work, who has simply 
 got himself a nom de guerre. The worst of 
 it is (while on a painful topic) , that the mys- 
 terious George, who did the things you 
 didn't do yourself on the outside doesn't 
 seem to have enlisted in this man's army. 
 The scared individuals in the picture think 
 they are ducking Fatigue, and that some one 
 else will "front and center" for the road 
 manicuring, shoveling, mopping and hefting 
 required to keep the place in which we like 
 to call "good police." But leave it to von 
 Fatigue and the top-cutter. 
 
 [25] 
 
Fis for First Call, to wit, that moment 
 when the cheery notes of the bugle, wel- 
 coming the new day, acquaint you of 
 duty to be done, and you spring lightly from 
 your bunk, without delay or repining, as in- 
 dicated in the illustration. Or, if you like. 
 First Call is the state of affairs preceding as- 
 sembly, where you are assisted in answering 
 *'Yo!" to your name by the fortunate know- 
 ledge of where it comes on the company 
 roster. Anyway, you manage to express 
 yourself as being present. 
 
 Sherman undoubtedly stood Reveille. 
 
 |29] 
 
Gis for Generals, with whom we are in- 
 timately acquainted — through the Sun- 
 day supplements. Of course there 
 must be generals in the Army, but you never 
 see them around. A man we know says his 
 former C. O. claimed he once was balled out 
 by General Pershing, and that the Gen. 
 finally said that he would let the matter drop 
 but for the C. O. not to let it happen again 
 and all like that, just like a regular guy. 
 This man we know got it from a guy w^ho 
 was there at the time and saw^ the General 
 and everything. But you can't believe all 
 you hear. This man has the reputation of 
 being a terrible liar, anyway. It was prob- 
 ably he who started the yarn about the Gen- 
 eral who made the 2nd looey return the 1 00 
 salutes (or whatever the number was) that 
 he was making the private do for not having 
 seen him or something. 
 
 That is the advantage of Generals. You 
 can pull something like the above about one, 
 and get away with it. With Colonels it's 
 different. You do sometimes meet a 
 Colonel. 
 
 [33] 
 
His for Hikes. Announcement that they 
 are going to have one is the only thing 
 that can make the whole company will- 
 ing to go on the sick report. They figure 
 that if they aren't on it the day before the 
 hike, they will be the day after. All they are 
 trying to do is save time. And there is 
 always the chance of the Medical looey 
 marking you "Quarters" by mistake. 
 
 1. Newton could have got on without the 
 apple, if he had been allowed to go on just 
 one hike. But he would have had to explain 
 in his definition that the Army pack is an 
 exception to the general rule about falling 
 objects. Its weight increases out of all pro- 
 portion after about the fifth mile, whatever 
 Doc Newton claims, especially w^hen accom- 
 panied by a regulation Springfield and Red 
 Cross SOX. It is said that the U. S. Army 
 carries an outfit, in full marching order, that 
 is 7 lbs. lighter than the Germans'. If that 
 is really the case, their appeals to Gott are 
 justified. 
 
 [37] 
 
I is Inspection. Not merely foot inspection, 
 or mouth inspection, or T. B. inspection, 
 or any of the other minor inspections, but 
 the regular Saturday morning inspection, 
 when a half-burnt Mecca under your bunk, 
 in conjunction with the C. O. having had a 
 bad night, will put you out of luck for a 
 pass, or worse. About one w^eek with noth- 
 ing else to do would be a fair time in which 
 to collect all the things that you are taking 
 care of for the Government, and getting 
 them in good shape. But they mostly rely 
 on two hours or so on Friday evenings, when 
 pieces of rag you were sure w^ere in your 
 barrack bag ain't, and oil and shoe polish 
 are in demand. (Rust in a rifle barrel is a 
 thing company commanders get very tem- 
 peramental over.) 
 
 There is this to be said in favor of inspec- 
 tion, though. Guys who otherwise only re- 
 gard the matter tentatively have to take a 
 shave, and the appearance of the facial land- 
 scape is much improved thereby. 
 
 [41] 
 
J is the Jug, otherwise known as the can, 
 the pen or the mill. We don't claim in- 
 side knowledge of this particular subject, 
 in spite of the attitude conveyed in conversa- 
 tions of this sort: 
 
 Party of the 1st Part (modestly) : "Yeh, I did 
 three months at Camp " 
 
 Party of the 2nd Part (deferentially) : "Uh, 
 huh." 
 
 P. of the 1st P.: "Yeh. And believe me, bo, 
 they didn't rub it into yuh. Fierce." 
 
 P. of the 2nd P.: "Yeh? Well, I was in for 
 12 months at Leavenworth — Uh? — Yeh. I took 
 the blame for what another guy done, and " 
 
 The non-com who oversees the detailing 
 of the occupants of the Jug on their daily 
 fatigues runs W. Hohenzollern close in the 
 world's popularity contest. But on the 
 w^hole visitors in the Jug take things with 
 a great deal of philosophy. 
 
 145] 
 
Kis for K. P. — the private's idea of 
 non-essential industry, and a fine 
 chance to get advance knowledge of 
 Hades, as the Harvard professor with whom 
 we first peeled onions expressed it. Among 
 other things you try to solve as a Kitchen 
 Cop is how^ a guy can be as mean as a Mess 
 Sergeant without waking up in the night 
 and being frightened at himself. It isn't 
 easy, either, to figure what becomes of the 
 spuds you peel. Some get eaten, of course, 
 but what do they do with the others? 
 
 The Kitchen Police have had a lot of pub- 
 licity in this war. And they deserve it. 
 Even the most aristocratic job the kitchen 
 has to offer — that is, "pearl diving," or the 
 operation of recovering the crockery from 
 the bottom of 2 feet of "water" in the sink — 
 is no fun if you do it 24Mi hours a day, to 
 which the work schedule in the kitchen has 
 lately been reduced by a special order of the 
 War Department. Publicity is all right, but 
 nobody likes it via the bulletin board where 
 they post the K. P. roster. 
 
 [49] 
 
Lis for Cooties. We leave you to figure 
 how the connection is estabhshed. They, 
 or it, are not, or is not, in themselves, or 
 itself, a court martial offense. Regulations 
 simply state that strict personal cleanliness 
 is "enjoined," and the fact is that cooties 
 don't flourish until you get nearer the front 
 line, where other things matter a w^hole lot 
 more. Of course, some New^ York cootie 
 may visit the war and get away with it, or 
 parts of it, but public opinion is so strong 
 in the Army on the subject of providing 
 free transportation of this sort that the 
 cootie's chance is slim. 
 
 For the scientifically inclined, it is noted 
 that, according to the location of the 
 phenomenon it is described either as "leap- 
 ing dandruff" or "shirt rats." 
 
 [53] 
 
M 
 
 is the Mess Hall, where, as the poet 
 has said 
 
 "... .the pinch primeval rules 
 And closest friendship cools." 
 
 In other words, "the Arm with the Reach 
 Wins." In the Mess Hall almost everything 
 goes, and especially the chow. Chow inspires 
 the everlasting hope of every man in the 
 Army, but often furnishes merely another 
 excuse for cussing the Kaiser. When they 
 get their husbands back from the Govern- 
 ment wives will have no reason to worry as 
 far as meals are concerned. All they w^ill 
 have to do is remember to spill coffee over 
 their ex-soldiers occasionally, and say "Out 
 o' luck, kid!" if they ask for more of some- 
 thing. That, and keeping the victrola play- 
 ing during family mess, will help the re- 
 turned hubbies feel at home. 
 
 [57] 
 
Nis the newly made non-com. This pic- 
 ture has been carefully drawn to scale, 
 and represents a corporal who has just 
 returned from the company tailor after get- 
 ting his chevron fixed, in proportion to some 
 officers who only scraped through West 
 Point. As you can see, he crowds the land- 
 scape quite a bit. He is considerably It. 
 
 Whoosis's famous dictum about non-com- 
 missioned officers being the back-bone of 
 any army strikes you as reasonable at this 
 stage of your military career. ( Whatzat has 
 an equally famous one about commissioned 
 officers being the same thing, and Whatzis- 
 name has one about the private being the 
 back-bone of the army, but what do Whatzat 
 and Whatzisname amount to anyw^ay?) 
 
 Bursting through the undergrowth into a 
 corporalcy not only lets you out of K. P. but 
 also helps you shake loose an extra three 
 bucks from the Disbursing Officer, and com- 
 petition among the would-be graduates is as 
 keen as a bayonet. Hard work will help you 
 along in that direction, but the fast service 
 route to the stripes is always thought to be 
 a congenial intimacy with the topper. 
 
 Having worn them elsewhere is no quali- 
 fication. 
 
 [61] 
 
Ois "Over There," where everyone lives, 
 in imagination, from the moment the 
 Medical Corps officer at the recruiting 
 station admits, against his evident v/ishes, 
 that you are O, K. But everybody has not 
 the same chance of getting there. George 
 M. Cohan went and signed the Kaiser's final 
 papers w^hen he wrote "Over There," and 
 all that w^orries the boys on this side is 
 whether they would have the chance to give 
 George a proper backing. 
 
 Much perfectly good thought is devoted, 
 in the meantime, to figuring what you will 
 do on the other side, if, as, and w^hen, and 
 whenever (as our company lawyer put it) 
 you get there. Of course the w^ar is bound 
 to claim some of your time, but that can't 
 be the reason for the big rush on the French 
 classes at the Y. War is the same in any 
 language, and all 1 2-inch shells have ap- 
 proximately the same accent. But there are 
 other things "Over There" beside the war. 
 Maize oo-ee, bo! Maize oo-ee! 
 
 [65] 
 
Pis Pay Day, which in France must be a 
 terrific strain on the boys. It is bad 
 enough on this side straightening up 
 your financial affairs at the end of the month. 
 There are so many things to remember, 
 such as, 
 
 2 beans to Red; 
 
 75c. to the tailor, for converting your 
 extra blouse, which was a trifle large, 
 into a mackinaw; 
 Collect 5 from Benneh Goldberg, who 
 is active in games of chance, and usu- 
 ally works on borrowed capital ; 
 Find the guy in the 8th Company who 
 had the two berries coming from 
 Buck-Eye. Buck-Eye desires that 
 you fix it for him, and he w^ill see you 
 right. 
 Figuring whether the Q. M. has made the 
 right deductions for your canteen checks, 
 family allotment, Liberty Loan subscription, 
 pool, barber and the other company fund 
 charges, and for the dish you broke the last 
 time you were on K. P. (in addition to tak- 
 ing care of the more personal items) is quite 
 some job right here. It must be fierce to 
 owe money in another language. 
 
 [69] 
 
Qis for Quarantine — an opportunity the 
 Army gives you from time to time to 
 consider in detail whether your life has 
 been all that it might have been, and whether 
 the war will be over soon, and whether they 
 will have ham again for dinner, and whether 
 Gladys is still crazy about you (no mail hav- 
 ing been delivered), and — well, everything 
 there is to consider. You can take your time 
 about it, too. Time is no object, because 
 there is nothing to do. People are reduced 
 to talking about the war. There are no 
 passes, no movies, no shows at the Y, owing 
 to the risk of your catching something, no 
 bunk fatigue, because you have to put your 
 bedding outside to air and leave it there all 
 day, no drills, no newspapers, no anything. 
 In fact, nothing. When you are not sus- 
 pecting your bunkies of having the flu, you 
 are wondering whether any of your relatives 
 are having it. Finally you start hoping they 
 are and that one will get it bad enough to 
 send a wire for you to "come at once." Such 
 is the effect of Quarantine! 
 
 The only forms of recreation in quaran- 
 tine are saving money and growing a 
 mustache. 
 
 [73] 
 
MM 
 
 • -"^^<\.j'5^^'^^4'''''*^ 
 
Ris for Rookie, who will positively 
 search, if you ask him, for the key to 
 the parade ground, or ten feet of skirm- 
 ish line. He believes that pup-tents must 
 have something to do with the Dogs of War, 
 and he spends the time he has between K. P., 
 fatigues and room orderly w^ondering who 
 wakes the guy that blows reveille. He finds 
 a Springfield is no toothpick, though he often 
 jabs the fellow in the same file w^ith it. "On 
 right into line" and "Right front into line" 
 are as one in his dismal existence. He w^on- 
 ders w^hat they will stick him for the "blouse 
 and breeches, C. O. D." he is told to get from 
 the Supply Sergeant, and somehow is always 
 the man for w^hom they had no clothes that 
 would fit. His buttons are never all there, 
 and if they are there they are never all but- 
 toned. He goes around looking like a suc- 
 cessful strategic retreat. People pick on him. 
 Sergeants like him w^ith the same strong 
 affection anyone has for a month's restric- 
 tion. 
 
 But there is this much about the Rookie: 
 You w^ere one once. 
 
 [77] 
 
Sis for Slacker — the (we hope) fictitious 
 character who nevertheless is liable to 
 invade your imagination after cold hot 
 cakes, without butter, some morning w^hen 
 you are quarantined and the mail hasn't 
 shown up for some days. 
 
 But for the most parts goats are loosed 
 not so much by those on the outside as by 
 the Army slackers, such as the Mess Hall 
 Slacker, who never holds up an empty dish 
 for the K. P. to fill unless you get the goods 
 on him. This bird has another plan that is 
 even worse. He can gauge the chow^ that 
 will be left in the dish after he takes his so 
 exactly that the amount is not a regular por- 
 tion, but is just too much to kick about, and 
 he has you spending the rest of the meal on 
 a flat w^heel, so to specik, holding up the dish 
 and waiting in vain for the kitchen constable. 
 He may not be much at target practice, this 
 guy, but he has some eye in the mess hall, 
 all right. He is liked like sand in the soup. 
 Next in the hearts of his victims is the guy 
 who won't take a shave unless he is going 
 on pass, who, in turn, is rivalled by the mean 
 person w^ho refuses to buy the camp maga- 
 zine because he isn't mentioned (or is men- 
 tioned!) inside of it. But the guy that has 
 them all skinned admits that he never writes 
 home to his folks unless they send him the 
 postage, 
 
 [81] 
 
Tis for the Target, an apparatus that is 
 approximately like a gallows in appear- 
 ance but which also reminds you of the 
 tackling dummy with which a football team 
 learns to take em off by the ankles. A 
 British sergeant usually goes with it, and 
 beginners gather from his remarks that the 
 German warrior is an undesirable person. 
 
 Bayonet practise lacked something before 
 the Yanks got hold of it. The minute they 
 were introduced to it, it was realized that 
 there is no reason why it should be a gloomy 
 affair. If you are going to get a guy between 
 the 5 th and 6th ribs you might as well keep 
 his mind pleasantly occupied and have 
 everything as cheerful as possible. So the 
 charge with fixed bayonets has been vocal- 
 ized. The best bayonet fighters now^ work 
 in the key of "C." And many a guy who 
 was a bear for yelling on the college campus 
 finds himself out-yodelled by some meek in- 
 dividual w^ho couldn't even w^hisper in civil 
 life, if his wife was around. 
 
 [85] 
 
Uis the Uniform that originates in the 
 Q. M. Clothing Room, which you enter 
 with ideas about being a military Beau 
 Brummel and leave feeling cis though you 
 had been to Moe Levy's. "The Army is the 
 Army" you tell yourself, "and I can't expect 
 to be quite so particular as I am with my 
 own tailor," and finally you emerge with the 
 only one they have left of that particular 
 garment. And you find your uniform fits 
 you just as much as the Supply Sergeant is 
 truthful. It is no use arguing with him, 
 either. If you try to get him admitting the 
 general idea that clothes ought to fit, even 
 if you call them a uniform, he gasses you 
 into insensibility with talk about his "tables 
 of fundamental allowances" and about 
 someone having doped the "tariff" wrong. 
 In fact he can counter attack so strongly that 
 you feel lucky to get a re-issued hat-cord, 
 when what you want is a winter overcoat. 
 
 Keeping your uniform in one place, and 
 the right place, is almost as much trouble as 
 getting it, the rookie finds. When he thinks 
 he presents an unbroken front, some sergeant 
 he has never been introduced to or anything 
 will come along and break it to him that his 
 U. S. collar button is on the wrong side, that 
 orders of the day call for shoes, marching, 
 instead of the field dogs he is wearing, and 
 'that match sticks for holding buttons in 
 place don't go. 
 
 [89] 
 
Vare the Visitors who never show up. 
 Never, that is, unless you are on K. P., 
 or old guard, or temporarily resident 
 in the can. They like to drop in on you on 
 the assumption that surely the guards 
 wouldn't hold them up after their coming all 
 that distance, and bringing that cake and 
 everything. The pass that you got for them, 
 signed by the top sergeant, and your com- 
 pany commander, and the Adjutant, and a 
 few others, and which you mailed special de- 
 livery, didn't reach them in time, but they 
 thought they would come anyway. Then 
 the first you hear (after not hearing) is they 
 are in camp, and a good Samaritan in 
 another company has taken it on himself to 
 let them know^ about your being on K. P., 
 and brings you a message saying they will 
 vv^ait for you at the Y. M. C. A., and for you 
 to hurry up. Then you get other messages, in 
 between dishing out the coffee and bringing 
 in a ton or two of coal, saying they won't be 
 able to make the train home if it is after 5 
 o'clock when you are through; (later) that 
 all is well, after all, and that you can take 
 your time as they have arranged to stay some 
 place over-night, and then — they show^ up 
 in person and claim you, blue denims and 
 all, and give the bunch something to josh you 
 over for the rest of your enlistment. 
 Visitors are a gruelling delight. 
 
 [93] 
 
Wis Wash Day — a contingency faced 
 with the same heroic resignation as 
 going over the top, and for the same 
 reason, both being inevitable necessities. 
 You can spend a pleasant half hour polish- 
 ing your shoes and scrubbing your best pair 
 of leggins, this activity being the sign of an 
 approaching pass. Something has to be 
 conceded to the public — everyone realizes 
 that. But washing an undershirt suggests 
 putting on evening dress for dinner on a 
 raft. Or, like buying a subway ticket and 
 w^alking home. It seems uncalled for. 
 
 Worse, if possible, than wash day is the 
 only alternative — the camp laundry. (They 
 don't have a laundry in some camps, w^hich 
 is like not having the influenza, or not stub- 
 bing your toe.) The official laundry treats 
 you very officially. They are impartial, par- 
 ticularly about shirts. A shirt may be vital 
 to you, but to them it is simply a garment. 
 
 'The times I sent you are but few 
 Not more than four, it seems to me. 
 
 But never once did you return O. K. 
 My Launderie! My Launderiel" 
 
 In other words, a camp laundry can't figure 
 w^hy you kick, when they did return a shirt 
 (somebody's shirt) in your package, par- 
 ticularly when you admit that you got the 
 right bed-sack and a fair percentage of 
 right socks. 
 
 [97] 
 
Xis for the Excuse you offer, proving 
 conclusively (as you can see by the 
 top sergeant's expression) that 
 You didn't hear the gun; 
 You are sure they blew reveille ten 
 
 minutes ahead of time; 
 You told Kiseilowski to tell him (the 
 topper) about your having been 
 working for that looey in the 23rd 
 Company and that he (the 2nd Lute) 
 said for you not to stand reveille and 
 it would be O. K. ; 
 You would sooner do five extra K. P.'s 
 than four week's restriction, if it is 
 all the same to the topper. 
 Excuses are useful as a conversational 
 ornament, even if they don't get you any- 
 where. They come in handy to explain 
 something you didn't do, and if you hand 
 out a perfect alibi they figure there must be 
 something fishy about it and stick you with 
 some "charge of quarters." Then when you 
 have done something, you don't mention 
 the excuse, and the C. O. comes to the 
 conclusion that you are not one of the alibi 
 gang and that maybe you didn't do it and 
 that he will overlook it anyway. In other 
 words it is good to have an excuse with you, 
 if you don't tell anyone about it. 
 
 [101] 
 
Yis the Yanks, accredited representa- 
 tives of Uncle Sam at the late lamented 
 international rough-house. Anyone 
 who has seen a considerable number together 
 knows why they are Yanks, and nothing else, 
 especially not "Sammies." At Chateau 
 Thierry, where they warmed up before a 
 rather anxious crowd, and at St. Mihiel, 
 w^hen the machine got running smoothly, 
 they proved to the w^orld what it means to 
 rouse a bunch fed on beans and bacon. 
 
 Specialty: Tciking towns and learning to 
 pronounce 'em later. 
 
 [105] 
 
Zis for Zero — the Kaiser's net gains. 
 This picture carries its own moral and 
 simply illustrates that it is all right to 
 get a place in the sun, as long as you don't 
 try to hog the whole stoop. Bill Hohen- 
 zollern started well, but his control was poor. 
 And he was no good atall at keeping 
 luncheon engagements. In brief, he was a 
 good deal of a pest, and nearly beat out Nero 
 as history's prize bad actor. 
 
 But he couldn't "stand the gaff"; the 
 crowd wasn't with him, and so, finally, he 
 has reached his own royal Zero Hour. 
 
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