that?"

"Siddons," McGee replied tersely.

A look of aggravation, or of pained tolerance, crossed Cowan's face.

"We won't discuss that," he said, deserting for the moment his air of
good-fellowship and returning to the quick, testy manner of speaking
which was so characteristic of him in matters of decision. "I take it
you have said nothing to Larkin, or anyone else, concerning your--ah,
our suspicions?"

"Nothing, sir. But I can't--"

"Good. Let Intelligence work it out, Lieutenant. One little rumor might
upset all their plans. I can assure you, however, that G 2 knows all
that you know. They are waiting the right minute--and perhaps have some
plan in mind. Silence and secrecy are their watchwords. Let them be
yours." He arose and extended his hand. "I must be moving along. I'm
glad to see you doing so nicely. You'll be more than welcome when you
get back to the squadron. Don't worry. There's plenty of war left yet."

4

Perhaps there was plenty of war left, but McGee soon discovered that a
badly broken arm and a cracked, cut head can be painfully slow in
healing. Days dragged slowly by, with Larkin's visits as the only bright
spot in the enforced inactivity. Then, to McGee's further distress, the
squadron was moved to another front. Larkin had been unable to tell him
just where they were going, but believed it was to the eastward, where
it was rumored the Americans were to be given a purely American sector.

This was unpleasant news to McGee. It meant that he would be left
behind, and he could not drag from the hospital medicoes any guess as to
when he would be permitted to leave the hospital.

Hospital life, with its endless waiting, sapped his enthusiasm. At
night, in the wards, the men recovering from all manner of wounds would
try to speed the lagging hours by telling stories, singing songs, and
inventing the wildest of rumors. Occasionally, when the lights were out,
some wag would begin an imitation of a machine gun, with its
rat-tat-tat-tat, and another, catching the spirit of the mimic warfare,
would make the whistling sound of a high angle shell. In a few moments
the ward would be a clamorous inferno of mimic battle sounds--machine
guns popping, shells screaming toward explosion, cries of gas, and the
simulated agonized wails of the wounded and dying.

"Hit the dirt! Here comes a G.I. can."

"Look out for that flying pig!"

"Over the top, my buckoes, and give 'em the bayonet."

Thus did men