Having accomplished the _nettoyage_ (at which we were by this time
adepts, thanks to Mr. A.'s habit of detailing us to wash any car which
its driver and _aide_ might consider too dirty a task for their own
hands) we proceeded in search of a little water for personal use. B.
speedily finished his ablutions. I was strolling carelessly and solo from
the cook-wagon toward one of the two tents--which protestingly housed
some forty huddling Americans by night--holding in my hand an historic
_morceau de chocolat_, when a spick, not to say span, gentleman in a
suspiciously quiet French uniform allowed himself to be driven up to the
_bureau_, by two neat soldiers with tin derbies, in a Renault whose
painful cleanliness shamed my recent efforts. This must be a general at
least, I thought, regretting the extremely undress character of my
uniform, which uniform consisted of overalls and a cigarette.
Having furtively watched the gentleman alight and receive a ceremonious
welcome from the chief and the aforesaid French lieutenant who
accompanied the section for translatory reasons, I hastily betook myself
to one of the tents, where I found B. engaged in dragging all his
belongings into a central pile of frightening proportions.
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