Page:History of the 305th field artillery (IA historyof305thfi01camp).pdf/135

Rh element into our travels. The mess sergeant gambled on having his meal ready for a suitable stop. The train commander hazarded leaving many men behind when he ordered them to descend from their cars and form a line by the kitchen. For you couldn't tell much about the length of halts anywhere except at coffee or watering stops.

The train would pull up, let us say at noon. The mess sergeant would announce himself ready. The train commander would confer with the chef de gare. Sometimes the train commander would know French. More often he wouldn't.

"Ici!” he would say. “Combien de temps?”

The chef de gare would look at him, puzzled. Then a gleam of pleased intelligence would light his face.

"Oui. "Fait beaux temps—tres sec."

The train commander would look at him doubtfully. Did that mean much or little? Sec had a brief sound. One had to make sure. He would point, therefore, to the train, He would then with his hand indicate motion. He would display his wrist watch. He would wheedle:

"Ici! Beaucoup or petit?"

The chef de gare would smile in friendly fashion.

"Oui, Mon Capitaine. Beaucoup des Americans. Les Boches seront malade."

The captain's face would usually express an emotion bordering on tears—an eloquent emotion, which usually interpreted everything for the official. His face would brighten. He would look at his own watch. Realizing the futility of further words, he would carefully indicate two points on the dial.

"Quarante—minutes," the captain would say. "Get them out with mess kits," he would call to his aides. Tumbling from their cars the men would come and form a feverish line. Details would carry pails of food forward to the drivers. The captain would watch with a smile.