In the somber shadow of gaunt, historic Verdun the eleventh day of the eleventh month of 1918 crawled slowly toward its epoch-making eleventh hour. The progress of each advancing minute was accompanied by a bombardment that started in a rumbling basso-profundo of fourteen-inch naval guns and reached its crescendo of barbaric medley in a crackling cataract of machine-gun fire.

“You can’t tell me that this guerre is goin’ to finee toot sweet,” asserted Jimmy McGee to an infirmary orderly. “Listen to that hell-bent-for-election noise.” He paused to allow himself and the orderly to appreciate the significance of his assertion.

Both had grown accustomed to the thunder of barrages and the din of battles, but their ears were not listening to any ordinary bombardment. Their pals in arms were putting over the heaviest artillery fusillade that had ever made the base of Verdun’s brave citadel tremble. The noise was magnificent and awe-inspiring. The men held their tongues awhile. Then Jimmy spoke.

“Maybe it’s possible, but I doubt it. How the hell can they stop a thing like this guerre so quick?”

“Damn if I know. Sounds like bull to me, but the radio order says that we stop fightin’ at eleven o’clock. That’s all I know,” answered the orderly.

“I’m going to breeze ’round a bit. If it’s straight dope I’ll blow up to the position. Want to get a picture of O.D.’s grave. Camouflage me if any of them guys get wonderin’ where I am. The old wing’s gettin’ trÈs-bon now, anyhow. They might just as well let me go back to the battery,” and Jimmy took his bandaged left arm out of its sling just to prove his words.

“Go on, I’ll cover you up,” said the orderly.

Jimmy wandered through the different barracks of the regimental Échelon and finally landed at Headquarters Office.

“What’s the dope, Barney?” asked Jimmy of a bespectacled sergeant who sat humped over a desk full of morning reports.

“The guerre is finee at eleven o’clock,” was the answer in slow, methodic tones.

“Guess it’s straight enough if Barney believes it,” muttered Jimmy, closing the door.

He found Joyce, borrowed a pocket camera from him, and started for the front. Jimmy evaded Verdun and picked the straight road from Thierville to Bras. From Bras he intended following the muddy trail that led directly to the present position of his outfit.

A continuous stream of nondescript traffic flowed past him going in the direction of the Échelons. Captured Boche wagons, ammunition limbers, ration-trucks, caissons, staff cars, and ambulances were some of the vehicles that passed Jimmy as he plodded along. Their presence on the road at ten-thirty in the morning was a significant thing in itself. He knew that such heavy traffic was forbidden on roads that were under enemy fire during the hours of daylight. But the rattle and clatter of the motley traffic could not drown out the fury of the American bombardment.

“Well, it’s finee, old man,” shouted a man in fatigue clothes riding a balky mule.

“Oui,” responded Jimmy, unenthusiastically.

At Bras Jimmy stopped at one of the ambulance stations to watch them load on some boys who had just been wounded.

“Where the hell are you bound? The guerre’s finee.”

Jimmy looked at the speaker. He was Mike Merrowitz, of his own outfit.

“Goin’ up to the battery. What the hell did you do to your arm, Mike?”

“Nothin’ much. Was mendin’ a broken wire early this mornin’ and a piece of shell got me there. Doc said they might have to cut it off at the elbow. But I don’t believe it’s that bad. Remember my tellin’ you that I’d go through this guerre and get walloped on the last day? Well, the damn thing is finee, anyhow. Take care, Jimmy,” he admonished, looking at his bandaged arm.

Jimmy McGee could only nod his answer. The idea that a man could go through the war as long as Mike had and then get hit during the last minute of play was beyond him. He began wondering if it was all a mistake about the guerre being finished. The banging of the guns certainly didn’t help him to renew his faith in all the statements that he had heard to the effect that fighting would end at eleven o’clock.

It was exactly ten-forty-five when he started out on the second lap of his trip.

“Fifteen minutes to make good in,” muttered Jimmy to himself.

Along the sides of the slimy trail strange things were happening. Men began to appear on the surface. Horses and mules browsed around, hunting for a green patch of grass.

“What time have you got, buddy?” asked Jimmy of a man who was stripped to the waist and washing in an honest attempt to remove some of the dirt that had accumulated on his body since the wash of two months ago.

The man stopped and picked up his wrist watch. “Five minutes before knocking-off time, Jack,” was the casual reply.

“Five minutes,” repeated Jimmy McGee, doubtfully. “Say, do you think it’ll finee at eleven?” he asked.

“Sure,” was the confident reply. “It started in ten minutes; why the hell can’t it end in a few minutes?”

“Guess it can, but it seems funny as hell to talk ’bout the guerre endin’. Why, there’s been times lately when I thought the damn thing would never finee,” stated Jimmy, very solemnly.

“It will be strange to have it all finished. But I can get along without it. Say, I wonder when the hell we’ll go home, Jack?”

“Great God! I’d never thought of that. If this guerre finees to-day we ought to get a crack at the first boats. Been over here long enough. Can you imagine gettin’ back to the old life, wearin’ garters and stuff like that?”

“Too much for me, Jack,” admitted the man as he scrubbed away.

The bombardment seemed just in the act of flinging all of its violence into their ears when the roar of cannon and the shrieking of shells toned down to a puny whisper. A few seconds of scattered “booms” passed. Then a silence unknown to that part of the world settled over the vicinity of Verdun.

The guns of war had been hushed as if by the magic command of some invisible master voice.

Jimmy and the man looked at each other, stunned into dumbness by the miracle of silence. Five minutes passed in strange quietude.

“Guess I’ll blow up to the guns and see how the boys are takin’ this stuff,” said Jimmy, slowly.

“Well, it’s finee, sure as hell,” declared the man. He was reading his shirt and snapping his catches between thumb-nails.

“So long, bud; I’ll meet you in Boston,” was Jimmy’s parting shot.

“In Boston, eh?” replied the man as if a new and pleasing idea had occurred to him. “Oui—in Boston.”

The pockmarked hills that sloped down to meet the trail and mingle muddy rivulets with the slimy water that stagnated in its shell-holes took on a new lease of life as Jimmy surveyed them. Dark rings of smoke curled upward. The forms of men and animals began to appear, slowly at first, as if the bowels of the earth were giving up their recent inhabitants with great reluctance. Gradually whole processions of men moved against the horizons made by the dip and rise of Verdun’s storied hills. Mules and horses scampered at liberty and joined their braying and neighing with the sounds of human life that were heard in the great silence that obtained.

Turning an abrupt curve Jimmy McGee was almost upon his battery. Even Jimmy, who had grown to believe that he had seen every sight that the front could offer, admitted that the scene before him was unusual.

Humans and creatures who had been spending most of the last two months below the surface were breathing God’s free air once more without risking their lives by so doing. Men in undershirts, some without any, most all of them bareheaded, were stretching, washing, shaving, talking, and doing many other simple and ordinary things as if they were all undergoing a novel experience. There was not a clean-faced man in the crowd.

The four guns that had been participating in the final barrage of the war stood in their crude emplacements like stage-settings in a scene that had been deserted by all of the actors. They looked forlorn and lonely in their abandonment.

Equipment, most of it soiled, stained, and rusty, was piled in little heaps. A batch of rations had been uncovered and lay exposed to the possibility of unlawful seizure, as guards were a nonentity. Smoke issued from a field range that was in operation. The rattle of mess-kits announced the fact that the small line of men who had formed for mess were hungry.

Jimmy made for a group of men who were standing around a bucket of water, waiting their turn to wash.

“Hello, Sammy; how’s the boy?” asked McGee of a short, stocky lad in the waiting line of toilet-makers.

“Bon, Jimmy,” responded Sampson. “What do you think of this guerre being fineed?”

“Gosh! I can hardly believe it.”

“I keep thinking that it’s liable to start up any old time,” admitted Sammy.

“Are you goin’ down to the Échelon, Sammy?”

“Oui, toot sweet. Wait till I get a ton of this dirt off and I’ll hike along with you.”

“All right, I’m goin’ to look ’round just a bit. Will see you at the kitchen.”

“Trey-beans.”

Jimmy toured the position and inspected his Betsy.

“Well, old girl, you’re finee now,” he said, patting the barrel of his faithful piece affectionately.

He talked with all the boys he met. The one big question that they put to him was, “Know when we go home, Jimmy?” But that was a query beyond his power to answer. A few hinted that the division might be sent into Germany as a part of the Army of Occupation. These suggestions were routed by indignant denial of such a possibility.

“They’ll never send this outfit to Germany. We’re slated for home. Let them guys that just got over here take a crack at that stuff,” snapped Pop Rigney.

Later, after they had mess, Jimmy and Sammy started cross-country for Thierville so that they might pass O.D.’s grave and make a picture of it.

Jimmy found the mound of earth that covered the mortal remains of his pal, and after arranging the helmet on the crude little cross he photographed the grave and walked away with the remark, “O.D. was sure one white man, Sammy.”

They continued in silence until the outskirts of Verdun were reached.

“Gee! there’s something goin’ on in town,” declared Sammy.

The sound of pealing bells and stirring music reached their ears. They quickened their step. Cheering and shouts sounded above the music.

A bearded poilu came tearing out of a ruined house, waving a bottle over his head.

“Finee! La guerre finee!” he shouted, and offered them the bottle. They drank and shouted back:

“Oui. Finee. Hurrah!”

The grizzled poilu and the two Americans sallied down the narrow street to locate the music. Progress became difficult after the trio reached one of the main streets. Soldiers—for there were very few civilians residing in the battered remnants of Verdun—piled out of every doorway and alley, most of them singing and shouting. Finally, after stopping to drink the success of the armistice with at least ten different parties of poilus and Yanks, Jimmy, Sammy, and their new friend found themselves in the square where a parade was forming.

A hastily organized band crashed out the stirring music of “Quand Madelon.” The mob cheered itself into action and started off behind the band. Flags, mostly American, waved above the surging crowds. Another band, half American and half French, swung into the square playing the “Marseillaise.” Then “The Star-Spangled Banner” brought a thunderous volley of applause.

“La guerre c’est finie,” was the predominating cry. “Vivent les AmÉricains!” was the second in strength.

Most of the demonstrations came from the throats of the French whose natural dramatic and emotional temperament responded to the occasion more quickly than did the less demonstrative make-ups of the Yankee soldiers. But it was only natural that the French should have indulged in greater feelings and demonstrations than their brothers in arms, the Americans, for they had borne the yoke of war years longer. It was wonderful to see the worn lines on veteran poilu faces as their sternness relaxed in smiles and laughs.

Jimmy and Sammy found themselves drinking wine and other liquors with many strange men. The password to good-fellowship was “Finee, la guerre finee,” and when the liquor began to assert itself in the blood of the men who acclaimed the Allied triumph on the streets of Verdun good-fellowship reached its zenith.

That night the men of Jimmy’s section were gathered around a cheery-looking beer keg in a comfortable barrack at Thierville hashing over the guerre and its swift dramatic dÉnouement. The flight of the Kaiser and the downfall of his military empire had dwindled into a meaningless fact before the expanding idea of an early departure for home.

“Home! Great Lord, it ain’t possible!” ejaculated one man as he looked wistfully into the blazing fire that roared up a great open fireplace. A bit of silence followed on the heels of his remark. Then Limy Mills and Vine started singing the chorus of “There’s a Long, Long Trail Awinding.” Twenty throats, unsteady from an emotion that was new and yet old, joined in the singing.

Jimmy McGee, sitting in a far corner of the room, looked up from the letter that he was writing to Mary O.D. and listened while a strange yearning for something that the song suggested mastered his feelings.

Four days later Jimmy McGee’s outfit rolled down the “Sacred Road” of France. No officer or enlisted man knew its destination. All that any man could be certain of was that he was headed for the rear.

Jimmy, lacking a roll and stripped of sundry equipments that he had carried over the same road three months before, followed behind his Betsy.

“What outfit, buddy?” asked an engineer who leaned on his shovel to watch the decrepit parade pass.

“Twenty-sixth division,” answered Jimmy.

“You guys are goin’ home toot sweet, ain’t you?” questioned the engineer.

“So they tell us, buddy,” responded the Yankee veteran as a man does who speaks from another world. His thoughts were four thousand miles away, they stretched across the ocean and reached a certain, slender somebody who answered the name of Mary O.D. in the thoughts of Jimmy McGee.

“Gee! It sure will be tough tryin’ to tell her and her mother ’bout O.D. I wonder what Mary’ll think of me,” and Jimmy McGee trudged along to accept the future, even as he had accepted the guerre.