Two large tears rolled down his cheeks as he finished, and then came forward to shake hands; after that they all followed suit and I held on to the bed with the other, for in the fullness of their hearts they gave a jolly good shake!

I was tremendously proud of my medal—­a plain cross of bronze, with crossed swords behind, made from captured enemy guns, with the silver star glittering on the green and red ribbon above.  It all seemed like a dream, I could not imagine it really belonged to me.

I was at the Casino nearly two months before I was sent to England in a hospital ship.  It was a very sad day for me when I had to say goodbye to my many friends.  Johnson and Marshall, the two mechanics, came up the day before to bid goodbye, the former bringing a wonderful paper knife that he had been engaged in making for weeks past.  A F.A.N.Y button was at the end of the handle, and the blade and rivets were composed of English, French, and Boche shells, and last, but by no means least, he had “sweated” on a ring from one of Susan’s plugs!  That pleased me more than anything else could have done, and I treasure that paper knife among my choicest souvenirs.  Nearly all the F.A.N.Y.s came down the night before I left, and I felt I’d have given all I possessed to stay with them, in spite of the hard work and discomfort, so aptly described in a parody of one of Rudyard Kipling’s poems: 

THE F.A.N.Y.

     I wish my mother could see me now with a grease-gun under my car,
     Filling my differential, ere I start for the camp afar,
     Atop of a sheet of frozen iron, in cold that’d make you cry. 
     “Why do we do it?” you ask.  “Why?  We’re the F.A.N.Y.” 
        I used to be in Society—­once;
        Danced, hunted, and flirted—­once;
        Had white hands and complexion—­once: 
        Now I’m an F.A.N.Y.

     That is what we are known as, that is what you must call,
     If you want “Officers’ Luggage,” “Sisters,” “Patients” an’ all,
     “Details for Burial Duty,” “Hospital Stores” or “Supply,”
     Ring up the ambulance convoy,
     “Turn out the F.A.N.Y.” 
        They used to say we were idling—­once;
        Joy-riding round the battle-field—­once;
        Wasting petrol and carbide—­once: 
        Now we’re the F.A.N.Y.

     That is what we are known as; we are the children to blame,
     For begging the loan of a spare wheel, and fitting a car to the same;
     We don’t even look at a workshop, but the Sergeant comes up with a sigh: 
     “It’s no use denyin’ ’em nothin’! 
     Give it the F.A.N.Y.” 
        We used to fancy an air raid—­once;
        Called it a bit of excitement—­once;
        Prided ourselves on our tin-hats once: 
        Now we’re the F.A.N.Y.