Companies of men were arriving at every moment, from the Air Service, the artillery, the Medical Corps, the marines. At one o’clock, a faint whisper went through the crowd, now over ten thousand strong. The murmur was a command to hush, and as much as they could, they hushed. Then there it was, a prolonged basso hoot, the call of Elsie Janis’s train.

At the platform, she leapt off the caboose and turned one of her handsprings and, when she was upright again, cupped both her hands around her mouth and shouted, “Boys, are we downhearted?”

In response, a roar of men thousands strong: “Hell, no!”

The AEF band struck up “Ohio, Ohio,” the football-rally song, with extra percussion delivered by doughboys banging wrenches on their pie-plate helmets, which they held at arm’s length while Janis led the final cheer from the platform: “Wah-hoo-wah-hoo—rip, zip, bazoo—I yell— like hell—OSU.”

When the fuss died down, she shouted, “Is it time to quit?”

“Hell, no!”

“Maybe when the moon and stars butt in?”

“Hell, no!”

“When the bugler calls reveille?”

“Hell, no!”

“Then it’s never time to quit,” she said, and handsprung her way through a zippy rendition of “Delirious.”

Thus she held the men until it was time for the talent show. It had been a long winter, and certain of the doughboys had grown obsessive, working the short days and long nights, honing abilities that would bring pride to their companies.

The show began at four o’clock, and Janis led the men there herself, pumping her knees the whole way, with her band playing bugle-fife-and-drum songs behind her. They funneled into an open field at which a grandstand had been erected, so everyone had a better view of the contestants who were now lining up before them, straining at their leashes, and occasionally nipping the air.

The entrants included the following: Sampson, of the 148th Aero Squadron; Blazes, of the 13th Artillery; Tiger Boy, of the 185th Infantry; Killer and the Black Shadow, both of the 88th Aero Squadron; and Stumpy, whose trainers at the 24th Engineers hadn’t realized their dog was supposed to have a frightening name.

As the dogs paraded by, men from each unit walked up and down the grandstand, collecting chits and shouting out odds, because no demonstration of talent was complete without wagering. To this end, legends of feats of strength, endurance, and intelligence were circulating with the passion of Homer recounting the tales of swift-footed Achilles. The Black Shadow could jump six feet from a standing position. Killer could ride on the back of a motorcycle at thirty-five miles per hour, and walk up a tall ladder to fetch a frankfurter.