no longer trudging to the rear; they were halted now; and as Ruth passed them and reached the direct road to Château-Thierry she found them lined up beside the road, waiting. Officers were clearing the way farther down; and as someone halted Ruth's car she stood up and stared along the rise of ground to the south.
A sound was coming over, borne by the morning breeze—a sound of singing in loud, confident, boasting notes. Three notes, they were, three times repeated—the three notes which were blown on the bugles in Berlin when the kaiser or princes of the royal house were coming; three blatant, bragging notes which Ruth had learned a year before to mean, "Over there!"
For the Yanks are coming; the Yanks are coming,
The drums rum-tumming everywhere. . . .
Ruth caught to the side of the ambulance and held on tight. American voices; thousands of them! American men; American soldiers singing! Americans coming into this battle—coming forward into this battle, singing! Swinging! She could see them now as they wound about the hill—see the sun flashing on their bayonets, and the fine, confident swing—the American swing—of their ranks as they approached.
The Yanks are coming; the Yanks are coming . . .
And we won't go back till it's over, over here!
Ruth leaped up and screamed aloud with joy.
"What is it, Mademoiselle?" one of the dazed poilus inquired.
