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Updated: June 23, 2025
There were black-bearded, coarse-visaged Americans, some gambling round the little tables, others drinking. The pool tables were the center of a noisy crowd of younger men, several of whom were unsteady on their feet. There were khaki-clad cavalrymen strutting in and out.
He heard a whisper Father Pat was commending this scout he loved to the mercy of a higher power. Next, he felt himself lifted gently and guided backward from the bed. He did not want to go. He wanted to keep on seeing, seeing that dear face, to hold on longer to that weak hand. "Oh, don't don't take me!" he pleaded. The dying eyes followed, oh, how affectionately, the small, khaki-clad figure.
By this time the decks of the Everett were crowded with the khaki-clad soldiers of Uncle Sam whom the Germans were trying to prevent from getting into the trenches by sending them to the bottom of the Atlantic. The cruiser had headed straight for the U-boat, while the destroyer was coming up behind it with even greater speed.
Thinking something must have happened, I ran to the market-square, and, seeing a dusty khaki-clad figure whose appearance was unfamiliar to me, I touched him on the shoulder, and said: "Has anyone come in?" "We have come in," he answered "Major Karri-Davis and eight men of the Imperial Light Horse."
The few people whom they passed in the darkness paid no particular heed to them. They might have been a couple of khaki-clad boys in America for all the curiosity they excited. At the railroad station an army officer glared at them when they saluted and seemed on the point of accosting them, which gave them a momentary scare. "We'd better be careful," said Tom.
When he saw those seven khaki-clad figures standing there, with two shotguns bearing directly on his person, he was to all appearances struck dumb for the moment. His eyes stared and his mouth fell open. Fish and knife dropped from his nerveless hands. "Caught, by thunder! and by a bunch of boys at that!"
Yet the scene in the hotel's shabby restaurant at the dinner-hour was well worth the fantastic charges, for there gathered there nightly as interesting a company as I have not often seen under one roof: a poet and novelist who has given to Italy the most important literary work since the days of the great classics, and who, by his fiery and impassioned speeches, did more than any single person to force the nation's entrance into the war; an American dental surgeon who abandoned an enormously lucrative practice in Rome to establish at the front a hospital where he has performed feats approaching the magical in rebuilding shrapnel-shattered faces; a Florentine connoisseur, probably the greatest living authority on Italian art, who has been commissioned with the preservation of all the works of art in the war zone; an English countess who is in charge of an X-ray car which operates within range of the Austrian guns; a young Roman noble whom I had last seen, in pink, in the hunting-field; a group of khaki-clad officers from the British mission, cold and aloof of manner despite their being among allies; a party of Russians, their hair clipped to the skull, their green tunics sprinkled with stars and crosses; half a dozen French military attachés in beautifully cut uniforms of horizon-blue; and Italian officers, animated and gesticulative, on whose breasts were medal ribbons showing that they had fought in forgotten wars in forgotten corners of Africa.
They represented some outside authority, some potent, overpowering authority, as no khaki-clad soldiers could have represented it. The surprise was complete, the moral effect was staggering, and Dawson, who had counted upon both when he brought his Marines north, smiled contentedly to himself. He stepped forward, with that little slip of paper in his hand, and began to read from it.
Lines of khaki-clad Sammies were pouring from the American trenches now, in a mad rush for the Hun positions. "Well, we're together yet, anyhow," mused Jimmy, as, looking back, he saw Bob, the Polish lad, and Franz coming on with a rush. "Yes, we're together yet," added Roger. They both had been firing madly at the distant gray lines of German soldiers in front of them.
There was no line of battle, it was just here, there, and everywhere, khaki-clad, laughing demons, seeking Turks to kill. Never was there fighting like this. All that day it went on. On the beach, up the cliff, in the gullies, miles inland were men fighting. It was not a battle; it would have made a master of tactics weep and tear his hair, but these man-to-man fights kept on.
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