I believe I have said before
that Dunny knows every one, everywhere; in fact, I have always felt that
should circumstances conspire to make me temporarily adopt a life of
crime, he could manage to pull such wires as would reinstate me in the
public eye. But the general was stepping close to me.
"Monsieur," he was saying, "we are now allies, my country and the great
nation of which you are a son. Very soon your troops are coming. You
will fight on our soil, beneath your own banner. But your first blood
was shed for France, your first wounds borne for her, Monsieur; and in
gratitude she offers you this medal of her brave."
He was pinning something to my coat, a bronze-colored, cross-shaped
something, a decoration that swung proudly from a ribbon of red and
green. I knew it well; I had seen it on the breasts of generals,
captains, simple poilus, all the picked flower of the French nation.
With a thrill I looked down upon it. It was the Cross of War.
CHAPTER XXVII
A THUNDERBOLT OF WAR
The great moment had arrived. General Le Cazeau and his staff were
on their way back to Paris.
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