ve gallon milk cans, a market
basket or two and a bag of smoked herring, so they will get their
kopec's worth out of the ride, besides making the atmosphere nice and
pleasant for the rest of the passengers. If you should see a soldier
walking down the street with his nose turned up and his mouth puckered
in apparent contempt, you would be wrong in thinking he was conceited,
for if the truth be known he has probably just got his shirt back from
the washwoman, and she has used fish-oil instead of soap and he is
trying to escape the fumes. When you take your clothes to have them
laundered and tell the woman to please omit the odor, she'll tell you
that she has no soap and if you want them washed to your satisfaction
please send in a cake. Anything in the world to keep your clothes from
smelling of fish-oil, so you double-time back and get her the soap, and
then she gives the kids a bath, and that's the end of your soap.

"When a Russian meets another man he knows on the street, both lift hats
and flirt with each other. If they stop to talk, they always shake
hands, even if they haven't seen each other for fully twenty minutes.
Then they simply must shake hands again when they leave. When a man
meets a lady friend he usually kisses her hand and shows her how far he
can bend over without breaking his suspenders. 'Ah,' he will say, 'yah
ochen rrad vasveedyat, kak vui pazhavaetye?' which in the United States
means 'How do you do?' to which she will reply, 'Blogadaru vas, yah
ochen korosho,' or 'very well, thank you.' It is the knockout. A fellow
has to shake hands so much that some of them are getting the habit
around the company.

"And another thing, Ed, are they really holding a separate war up here
for our benefit? Just because we weren't in on the big doings in France
is no reason why they should run a post-season series especially for us.
We appreciate the kindness and honor and all that, but what we want to
know is where everybody gets that stuff. Believe me, after all the dope
we got on the trenches, about pianos and wooden floors, steam heat, and
other conveniences, when we see ourselves on outpost duty with one
blanket and a poncho, sleeping (not on duty, of course) in twenty-eight
inches of pure ooooozy mud, which before we awaken turns into thin, fine
ice, it makes us want to cry out and ask the universe what we have done
to deserve this exile.

"Now don't think, dear old Ed. that we are kicking. American soldiers