Sergeant Hicks was standing in the stern, smoking, reflecting, watching the twinkle of the red sunset upon the cloudy water.  It is more than a year since he sailed for France.  The world has changed in that time, and so has he.

Bert Fuller elbowed his way up to the Sergeant.  “The doctor says Colonel Maxey is dying, He won’t live to get off the boat, much less to ride in the parade in New York tomorrow.”

Hicks shrugged, as if Maxey’s pneumonia were no affair of his.  “Well, we should worry!  We’ve left better officers than him over there.”

“I’m not saying we haven’t.  But it seems too bad, when he’s so strong for fuss and feathers.  He’s been sending cables about that parade for weeks.”

“Huh!” Hicks elevated his eyebrows and glanced sidewise in disdain.  Presently he sputtered, squinting down at the glittering water, “Colonel Maxey, anyhow!  Colonel for what Claude and Gerhardt did, I guess!” Hicks and Bert Fuller have been helping to keep the noble fortress of Ehrenbreitstein.  They have always hung together and are usually quarrelling and grumbling at each other when they are off duty.  Still, they hang together.  They are the last of their group.  Nifty Jones and Oscar, God only knows why, have gone on to the Black Sea.

During the year they were in the Rhine valley, Bert and Hicks were separated only once, and that was when Hicks got a two weeks’ leave and, by dint of persevering and fatiguing travel, went to Venice.  He had no proper passport, and the consuls and officials to whom he had appealed in his difficulties begged him to content himself with something nearer.  But he said he was going to Venice because he had always heard about it.  Bert Fuller was glad to welcome him back to Coblentz, and gave a “wine party” to celebrate his return.  They expect to keep an eye on each other.  Though Bert lives on the Platte and Hicks on the Big Blue, the automobile roads between those two rivers are excellent.

Bert is the same sweet-tempered boy he was when he left his mother’s kitchen; his gravest troubles have been frequent betrothals.  But Hicks’ round, chubby face has taken on a slightly cynical expression,—­a look quite out of place there.  The chances of war have hurt his feelings... not that he ever wanted anything for himself.  The way in which glittering honours bump down upon the wrong heads in the army, and palms and crosses blossom on the wrong breasts, has, as he says, thrown his compass off a few points.

What Hicks had wanted most in this world was to run a garage and repair shop with his old chum, Dell Able.  Beaufort ended all that.  He means to conduct a sort of memorial shop, anyhow, with “Hicks and Able” over the door.  He wants to roll up his sleeves and look at the logical and beautiful inwards of automobiles for the rest of his life.

As the transport enters the North River, sirens and steam whistles all along the water front begin to blow their shrill salute to the returning soldiers.  The men square their shoulders and smile knowingly at one another; some of them look a little bored.  Hicks slowly lights a cigarette and regards the end of it with an expression which will puzzle his friends when he gets home.