On the landing stage at the French harbor of Boulogne was
drawn up a company of French soldiers, who looked eagerly at the
approaching steamer. They were not dress parade soldiers nor smart
cadets--only battle-scarred veterans home from the trenches, with the
tired look of war in their eyes. For three years they had been hoping
and praying that the Americans would come--and here they were at last!
As the steamer slowly approached the dock, a small group of officers
might be discerned, looking as eagerly landward as the men on shore had
sought them out. In the center of this group stood a man in the
uniform of a General in the United States Army. There was, however,
little to distinguish his dress from that of his staff, except the
marks of rank on his collar, and the service ribbons across his breast.
To those who could read the insignia, they spelled many days of arduous
duty in places far removed. America was sending a seasoned soldier,
one tried out as by fire.
The man's face was seamed from exposure to the suns of the tropics and
the sands of the desert. But his dark eyes glowed with the untamable
fire of youth. He was full six feet in height, straight,
broad-shouldered, and muscular. The well-formed legs betrayed the
old-time calvalryman. The alert poise of the man showed a nature
constantly on guard against surprise--the typical soldier in action.
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