They would swing into the movie shows; or into the church canteens where they would crowd round pianos and sing while the church ladies smiled benignly. Then, at 11.30, there was the exodus from town—the mass rush for the last street car to camp—and always ten times as many men as there were seats. One got to know the conductors and their ways; to kid and jolly them; to rag and tease; to evade payment of fares; to mob the car and climb to the roof. Finally, soldiers hanging from every projection of the car, it would lumber away into the darkness, off over the country roads, with the troops roaring:
“When I dream about the moonlight on the Wabash,
Then I long for my I-i-i-india-a-a-ana home.”
One day, suddenly, the camp was paraded. The brigadier read from a paper. Infantry was needed in
