CROSSING THE RHINE
It was a memorable day when the Army Boys at last looked upon the
Rhine. Again and again that word had been on their lips in the course
of the war. A thousand times they had pledged themselves to reach the
Rhine. The river was to them a symbol of Germany itself.
Into the city of Coblenz poured the American army in columns that
seemed endless. Over the Rhine they went on two bridges that spanned
the great river that stretched out like a broad silver ribbon as far as
their eyes could see. At last the Rhine was under American control, and
a German could not even cross it without permission from an American
sentry.
On the other side of the river from Coblenz was the great fortress of
Ehrenbreitstein, one of the strongest and most famous in Germany. It
covered many acres and stood on a rocky promontory, four hundred feet
above the level of the river. It could hold a hundred thousand men if
necessary. It had cisterns hewed out of the solid rock that could hold
water enough to supply a garrison of eight thousand men for ten years.
There were mammoth underground passages and magazines for supplies and
ammunition. From its rocky height it seemed to be able to defy the
world.
The German flag had floated over the fortress for a hundred years. Now
Old Glory was hoisted in its place and the pulses of the boys thrilled
as the Stars and Stripes spread out proudly in the breeze.
Part of the army was stationed in Coblenz, but many thousands were
placed in the fortress itself, which was henceforth to serve as
American barracks.
Then for the first time since they had landed in France the American
army really rested. Their main work was done and well done. They had
fought the good fight. They had kept the faith.
Not that the army discipline grew lax. The men were kept in shape
for any emergency. At a day’s notice if necessary they could resume
fighting. But there were many hours every day that they had to
themselves and they were as full of high spirits as so many colts
turned out to pasture.
On one such day after they had had some good wrestling and boxing
matches Billy’s effervescence found vent in an offer to sing them a
song “so pathetic that it will bring tears to your eyes.”
“Oh, cut out that stuff,” chaffed Bart. “Isn’t there enough trouble in
the world without your singing songs to make us weep?”
“Aw, this isn’t going to be the kind of a song you think it is,”
protested Billy. “This song isn’t aimed to make you shed tears of
sadness, the one and only idea being to double you up with spontaneous
and irresistible laughter. You’ve heard the old saying, haven’t you,
‘to laugh till you cry’? Of course you have, and that’s what I have in
mind.”
“I never knew you had a gift for singing comic songs,” said Tom,
suspiciously, “and what’s more, I don’t mind going a little further and
saying I didn’t know you could sing any kind of a song at all.”
“That just goes to show how ignorant you are,” retorted Billy, “you
just wait till you hear me sing this song, and see if it isn’t every
bit as good as I say it is.”
“What’s the name of this wonderful composition?” asked Tom.
“The name?” said Billy. “Why, I don’t see any real reason why I
shouldn’t tell you. The name of this song is: ‘I Want a Good Egg, and
I Want It Bad.’ The accompaniment will be rendered----” but this was
as far as he got, as a shout of laughter went up, and he became the
target for whatever miscellaneous objects happened at that moment to be
closest to hand.
“The title to that song is plenty,” observed Frank, when the
disturbance had somewhat quieted down; “speaking for myself, I’m not
curious to see if the music is as bad as the egg.”
“That’s just it,” said Billy, aggrievedly, “it isn’t as bad, it’s
worse. That’s what makes the song so funny.”
“The trouble is,” said Tom, “that you’re about the only one in this
man’s army who does like it, so I’d advise you to drop it while you’re
still alive and healthy.”
“Oh, all right, then,” said Billy, “if you fellows haven’t got sense
enough to recognize a little musical gem when it is offered to you, you
can go without. But please remember that you’re the losers, not me.”
“It’s nice of you to feel sorry for us,” said Frank, “but just you save
up that song to sing to a bunch of Boches. Of course it will be hard
even on the Huns, but they’re used to atrocities by this time.”
“That’s a good idea,” said Billy in an injured tone. “I know a German
isn’t much good, but with all their faults they do appreciate good
music.”
“Yes, but we weren’t talking about _good_ music,” remarked Bart
pointedly.
“I don’t seem to make a hit with this crowd,” said Billy plaintively.
“One of you fellows see if you can do better.”
“I heard a good joke the other day,” volunteered Tom, “and I wouldn’t
mind telling it if somebody coaxed me a little bit.”
“Consider yourself coaxed,” said Bart. “Go ahead and shoot the works.”
“Well,” said Tom, “it seems that in one of the recruiting camps an
officer was questioning some of the men with an idea of finding out
what they would do in a certain emergency. As he went down the line, he
came to a darky.
“‘Now, ’Rastus,’ the officer said, ‘suppose you were out in an open
field on scouting duty, and suddenly you saw a whole regiment of
Germans running toward you, bayonets fixed and ready for business. What
would you do?’
“‘Whut would ah do? Why, boss, ah wouldn’t do a thing. Ah’d just say
tuh mah feet: “Feet, do yuh duty,” and, boss, ah’m mighty suah dey
would.’”