THE RESULT OF STAYING AWAKE
"So long, Iggy, old top. We'll be back by midnight," called out Jimmy
Blazes from the front seat of the automobile which was to take Roger,
Bob and himself into Tremont for their Wednesday outing.
"You'll never know when midnight comes, Iggy." Bob leaned out of the
tonneau of the machine, his black eyes twinkling. "Better watch yourself
to-night, or you'll be dropping off at eight o'clock, sitting up
straight, and morning'll find you flopped over still in your uniform.
You won't have any nice kind brothers around this evening to shake you
awake before Taps." Bob teasingly referred to Ignace's tendency to doze
off early in the evening while sitting on his cot. "Why not be a hero
and stay awake for once just to see that your little Buddies get back O.
K.?"
"So will I," assured Ignace with deep decision. "Goo'-bye." The
automobile now starting, he nodded solemnly and raised his hand in a
familiar gesture of farewell which Bob always called "Iggy's benediction
style."
"I believe he will, at that," remarked Roger, as the car rolled down the
company street. "You shouldn't have told him to do it, Bob."
"Oh, he understood this time that I was only kidding him," was the light
rejoinder. "Look who's here!" he exclaimed, as the car stopped at a hail
from a waiting group of six soldiers.
Crowded into the tonneau with strangers, neither Bob nor Roger saw fit
to continue the subject of Ignace. Both were soon exchanging
good-humored commonplaces with their soldier companions of the ride.
Once fairly outside camp limits, the load of rollicking soldier boys
were soon raising their voices in a lusty rendering of "Where Do We Go
From Here?" With the prospect of an afternoon and evening of freedom
before them, they were all in high spirits. Traveling a somewhat rough
road, the frequent jolting they met with whenever the car went over a
bump merely added to their hilarity. An unoffending motorist ahead of
them, driving along in a somewhat rickety runabout, presently became an
object of marked concern. A running fire of military commands gleefully
shouted out at the swaying machine as it lurched along soon caused its
luckless driver to speed up and scuttle out of sound of the derisive
calls which greeted him from the rear. Uncle Sam's boys were out for
fun and intended to have it.
An hour's ride brought the revelers into Tremont. Arrived in the heart
of the city, which boasted a population of about one hundred thousand,
Jimmy, Bob and Roger took friendly leave of their noisy fellow
travelers.
"Now where do _we_ go from here?" asked Roger, as the trio halted
together on a corner of Center Street, Tremont's main thoroughfare, and
looked eagerly about them.
"To a restaurant for grub," was Bob's fervent response. "I know a place
where the eats are O. K. I told you fellows that the first newspaper job
I ever tackled was on a morning paper in this town. I lived here about
three months. Just long enough to make good on the paper. Then I beat it
back to the big town and landed with the _Chronicle_. I know every
historic cobblestone in this lovely burg."
As none of the three had stopped for the noon meal at Camp Sterling,
they lost no time in patronizing the restaurant of Bob's choice.
After weeks of uncomplainingly accepting in their mess kits the
wholesome though monotonous rations of the Army, a real bill of fare to
choose from was a rare treat. In consequence they lingered long at table
and, according to Jimmy, "filled up for a week," before starting out to
"see the sights." This last consisted of a stroll through the principal
streets, with stops along the way at various shops, there to purchase a
few trifles, such as had caught their fancy while pausing to stare into
attractive show windows. Then followed a visit to a motion-picture
theater, where a feature photoplay was going on. From there they drifted
into another "movie palace," and so amused themselves until supper time.
The evening was devoted to witnessing a "real show" at Tremont's largest
theater. It was a lively farce comedy and the boys enjoyed it.
Meanwhile, Ignace So Pulinski was putting in a most lonely afternoon and
evening at Camp Sterling. Temporarily deprived of the lively society of
his Brothers, he was at a loss to know what to do with himself. Part of
the afternoon he spent in wandering gloomily about camp, frequently
consulting the dollar watch he carried, in a wistful marking of the slow
passing of the time. Aside from his bunkies, few of the men in his
barrack had ever taken the trouble to cultivate his acquaintance. During
his first days in camp they had regarded him as "a joke," privately
wondering what three live fellows like Jimmy, Bob and Roger could see in
"that slow-poke" to make a fuss over. After his wrathful descent upon
bullying Bixton, he had undoubtedly risen in estimation. He had signally
proved his ability to take care of himself. No longer classed as "a
joke" he achieved the title of "that wild Poley" and was accorded a
certain amount of grudging respect that made for civil treatment but
little friendliness.
By the time the supper call sounded that evening Ignace had reached a
stage of loneliness that caused him to sigh gustily as he stood in line
at the counter with his mess kit to receive his portion of food.
His china-blue eyes roving mournfully over the long room in search of
companionship while eating, they came to rest on the man Schnitzel. The
latter looked equally lonely, as he arranged his meal at an unoccupied
table at the far end of the room. Owing to the fact that it was a
half-holiday, the mess hall was minus at least a fourth of its usual
throng. Obeying a sudden impulse Ignace made his way to where Schnitzel
sat, and asked half-hesitatingly, "You care I sit here by you?"
"Help yourself," was the laconic response. Nevertheless the
German-American's eyes showed a trace of inquiring surprise at this
sudden invasion.
"Thank." Ignace carefully set his meat can and cup on the table, and
solemnly seated himself beside the other.
"Too much quiet, so is because the many get the pass," ventured the
Pole. "I no like ver' well."
"It's all the same to me." There was a note of bitterness in the
replying voice. "I haven't any kick coming. I suppose you miss your
bunkies," he added, making an indifferent effort at civility. "They're a
lively bunch of Sammies."
Ignace stopped eating and stared fixedly at his companion. The latter's
dark, rugged features wore an expression of melancholy that woke in him
a peculiar feeling of friendliness. "Y-e-a," he nodded. "I miss. Them
ver' good my frens, all. I call my Brothar. You speak the American good.
You have go by American school?"
Having never before exchanged a word with Schnitzel, Ignace had fully
expected to hear the man use broken English.
Schnitzel's fork left his hand and clattered angrily on the bare table.
"Why shouldn't I speak English well?" he burst forth, scowling savagely.
"I was born in this country. My parents came from Germany, but my
father's an American citizen. He hates the Kaiser like poison. I'm an
American, not a Fritzie, as a lot of fellows here seem to think. If I
wasn't I wouldn't be in this camp training to go over. I enlisted
because I wanted to fight for my country. Some people act as if they
didn't believe it, though. There's been a lot of lies started about me
right in our barrack. I know who to thank for it, too. I've stood it
without saying a word. But if it goes on----" He stopped, one strong
brown hand clenching. "I was glad you jumped that hound the other day,"
he continued fiercely. "Wish you'd hammered him good!"
"So-o!" Ignace was not too slow of comprehension to put two and two
together. Here it seemed was a man with whom he had something in common.
"You see me do him?" he asked.
"Yes. I was there that day and saw the whole thing! I didn't blame you.
I hate the sight of him. He bunks next to me, you know. I wish he
didn't. But then, what do I care? I can take care of myself. Don't let's
talk about him. It makes me sore just to think of him. Those three
fellows you run with are good chaps. You were lucky to get in with them.
They all treat me fine, though I hardly know them."
Praise of his Brothers caused Ignace to launch forth into the story of
his first meeting with them, and of all they had done for him. Schnitzel
listened without comment, merely repeating, "You were lucky," when
Ignace had finished. With that he relapsed into taciturn silence,
hurriedly finished his meal, and with a brief "So long" rose and left
Ignace to himself.
The latter, however, was not concerned by his table-mate's sudden
relapse into uncommunicativeness. He watched Schnitzel walk away, a
gleam of interest in his round, childlike eyes. He would have something
pleasant to tell his Brothers on their return. They would be surprised
to learn that the "so quiet fellow who never talk" had said so much to
him.
His letter to his mother still unwritten, Ignace decided to begin it
directly he had cleansed and put away his mess kit. Seven o'clock saw
him established at a desk in the Y. M. C. A., laboriously wielding a
stubby pencil. This time he wrote in Polish and at some length. It was
almost nine o'clock when he finished amid frequent yawns. Realizing that
he was getting very sleepy, he took a brisk walk up and down the company
street on which his barrack was situated. He was determined to fight off
sleep, so as to stay awake until his bunkies' return.
He lingered outside in the crisp night air until call to quarters drove
him reluctantly indoors. After Taps, however, his struggle began in
earnest.
From the sounds of deep breathing about him he guessed that he alone was
still awake. By the time that eleven o'clock had actually arrived he was
sure that it was past twelve, and that his bunkies had overstayed their
leave of absence. The setting in of this dire conjecture roused him in
earnest. He had now no further need to fight off sleep.
His face turned anxiously in the direction of the stairway; he was not
aware that across the squad room a man had noiselessly left his cot and
was slipping along cat-footed toward one of the three vacant bunks just
beyond Ignace's own. Though he heard no sound, that inexplicable sense
that warns of stealthy approach wrenched the Pole's straying gaze from
the direction of the stairway.
A sudden echoing yell of mingled surprise and anger was followed by the
smack of a bare fist against flesh. Came a scuffle of feet and a
resounding thump as two bodies hit the floor. The racket aroused the
peacefully dreaming occupants of the squad room to startled awakening.
As the thumping continued, mingled with hoarse exclamations, enraged
sputterings, and the thudding impact of blows, a babble of voices rose
on all sides. With it came lights and an exasperated top sergeant
bearing down upon the combatants with fire in his eye.
He might have been a thousand miles away so far as the fighters were
concerned. They had now gained their feet, and were engaged in battle
royal.
"Stop it!" bellowed the sergeant. "Break away! Get back to your bunks,
both of you."
Despite his stentorian commands, the fight went on. Clad only in his
undergarments, his long fair hair wildly tousled, eyes two blue flames,
blood trickling from his nose, Ignace was a sight to be remembered, as
he launched a powerful blow at Bixton, his hated antagonist. Bixton
looked even worse. The coat of his pajamas hung on him in shreds. His
left eye was closed, and his nose was bleeding also. His face was a
livid, infuriate mask against which the freckles stood out darkly.
The sergeant now took a hand in the fight. Leaping behind Ignace he
wrapped both arms about the Pole's body, and, exerting all his strength,
jerked the belligerent violently backward. Beginning dimly to realize
what was happening to him, Ignace retained just enough common sense not
to resist, but allowed himself to be flung unceremoniously down on his
cot.
"This is a nice state of affairs," lashed out the sergeant, glaring down
at Ignace, who had now raised himself to a sitting posture. "Now you
stay where you're put. Don't you dare move an inch off that cot." With
this he whirled and bore down upon Bixton, who had been dragged to his
own cot by another non-com.
"You're a nice-looking specimen," he blared forth at Bixton. "Get those
rags off you quick, and go and wash your face. Move lively. Go with him,
Quinn," he directed, turning to the corporal, who stood at his elbow.
"He's not to be trusted. Get him back here on the jump, and don't let
him open his head. The nerve of two rowdies like that setting the squad
room in an uproar at this time of night! Not another sound from you, you
ruffian," he warned Bixton. "You'll get yours to-morrow."
"It wasn't my fault," began Bixton hotly. "I started to get a drink of
water and----"
"Hold your tongue!" roared the sergeant. "See to him, Quinn." Turning on
his heel the sergeant took the center of the floor, and issued a
succession of sharp commands that sent the men to their bunks, and
brought order and quiet out of the humming confusion. Finally satisfied
with the result, he next took Ignace in tow and marched him off for
repairs, sternly refusing to allow him to offer a word of explanation.
"You can say what you've got to say at headquarters to-morrow," was his
grim ultimatum.
When at five minutes to twelve Roger, Jimmy and Bob stole quietly into
the squad room, it was apparently wrapped in its usual midnight silence.
Nor were any of the three aware of the many pairs of bright eyes that
marked their entrance and followed them to their cots.
"Are you asleep, Iggy?" whispered Jimmy softly, as, smiling to himself,
he bent over the Pole's cot. He was wondering if Ignace had really taken
Bob seriously.
In the darkness an arm reached out and drew his head down to a level
with the Pole's own. Into his ear was breathed the amazing words: "I
have give Bixton the strong poonch. To-morrow mebbe no more solder. You
no speak me more now. Morning I tell you." The voice ceased and the grip
suddenly relaxed, as Ignace flopped over on his side with a faint sigh.
Jimmy repressed the amazed ejaculation that sprang to his lips as he
straightened up. Before sitting down on his own cot, he slid quietly
over to Roger, who was engaged in removing his shoes. "Listen. Iggy's
done it," he whispered. "Given Bixton a trimming. He doesn't dare open
his head. He's in bad. Pass it on to Bob. I don't know what started it,
but, oh, Glory, I wish I'd been here!"