AT THE TURN WITH WILFRED
I expect Mr. Robert overstated the case a bit. He was more or less
hectic back of the ears about then, havin' just broken away after a
half-hour session with Mrs. Stanton Bliss.
"That woman," says he, slumpin' into a chair and moppin' his brow, "has
the mental equipment of a pet rabbit and the disposition of a setting
hen. Good Lord!"
I looks over at Vee and grins. Had to. It ain't often you see Mr. Robert
like that. And him bein' all dolled up in his nifty navy uniform made it
seem just that much funnier. But Vee don't grin back. She'd sympathize
with 'most anybody. At that exact minute, I'll bet she was bein' sorry
for both of 'em all in the same breath, as you might say.
"But can't something be done--somehow?" she asks.
"Not by me," says Mr. Robert, decided. "Great marlinspikes! I'm not the
war department, am I? I'm only a first-grade lieutenant in command of a
blessed, smelly old menhaden trawler that's posing as a mine-sweeper. I
am supposed to be enjoying a twenty-four hour shore leave in the peace
and quiet of my home, and I get--this."
He waves his hand toward the other room, where the afore-mentioned Mrs.
Stanton Bliss is sobbin, sniffin', and otherwise registerin' deep
emotion by clawin' Mrs. Robert about the shoulders and wavin' away the
smellin' salts.
"If it was the first time," growls Mr. Robert. "But it isn't."
That was true, too. You see, we'd heard somethin' about the other
spasms. They'd begun along in July, when the awful news came out that
Wilfred's red ink number had been plucked from the jar. Now you get it,
don't you? Nothing unique. The same little old tragedy that was bein'
staged in a million homes, includin' four-room flats, double-decker
tenements, and boardin'-houses.
Only this happened to hit the forty-room country house of the Stanton
Blisses. Course, it was different. Look who was bein' stirred up by it.
So mother had begun throwin' cat-fits. She'd tackled everyone she knew,
demandin' to know what was to be done to keep Wilfred out of it. Among
others, of course, she'd held up Mr. Robert. Wasn't he their nearest
neighbor, and hadn't the Blisses entertained the Ellinses a lot? Not
that she put it that way, exactly. But when she came with this hunch
about gettin' sonny a snap job on some sort of naval construction work,
why, of course, Mr. Robert couldn't duck. Yes, he thought he could place
Wilfred. And he did--time-keeper, six-hour shift, and near enough so he
could run back and forth every day in his machine.
That might have been good enough for some folks. It meant dodgin' the
draft for Wilfred, dead sure. But mother didn't stay satisfied long. She
went investigatin' around the plant. She found the office stuffy,
Wilfred's desk had no electric fan on it, she wasn't sure of the
drinkin' water, and the foreman was quite an impossible sort of person
who always sneered when he had anything to say to Wilfred. Couldn't Mr.
Robert attend to some of these things? Mr. Robert said he'd try--if he
had time. He didn't get the time. More visits from mother.
Then this latest catastrophe. The Stanton Blisses had been away from
home for three weeks or more, house-partyin' and motorin' through the
mountains. Poor Wilfred had had to stay behind. What a stupidly
distressin' thing war was, wasn't it? But he had been asked to spend his
nights and Sundays with a college chum whose home was several miles
nearer the works.
And then they had come back to find this scribbled note. Things had been
gettin' worse and worse, Wilfred wrote. Some young hoodlums around the
plant had shouted after him as he drove off in his car. Even young
girls. The men had been surly to him, and that beastly foreman---- Well,
he wasn't goin' to stand for it, that was all. He didn't know just what
he was goin' to do, but he was clearin' out. They'd hear from him later.
They had. This six-word message from Philadelphia, dated nearly two
weeks ago, was also waitin'. It said that he'd enlisted, was all right,
and for them not to worry. Nothin' more.
You couldn't blame mother for bein' stirred up. Her Wilfred had gone.
Somewhere in some army camp or other, or at some naval trainin' station,
the son and heir of the house of Bliss was minglin' with the coarse sons
of the common people, was eatin' common food, was wearin' common
clothes, was goin' up against the common thing generally. And that
wasn't the worst of it. Where? Why didn't Mr. Robert tell her where? And
couldn't he get him away at once? Mr. Robert had almost gone hoarse
tryin' to explain why he couldn't. But after every try she'd come back
with this wail:
"Oh, but you don't understand what it is to be a mother!"
"Thank the stars I don't!" says he, as he marches out of the room.
I was for clearin' out so he'd be free to shoo her in any style he
wanted to. We'd been havin' dinner with the Ellinses, Vee and I, and it
was time to go home anyway. But there's no budgin' Vee.
"Don't you think Torchy might find out where he is?" she suggests.
"Bein' in the army himself, you know, and so clever at that sort of
thing, I should think----"
"Why, to be sure," breaks in Mr. Robert, perkin' up all of a sudden and
starin' at me. "Lieutenant Torchy to the rescue, of course. He's the
very one."
"Ah, say, how'd you get that way?" says I. "Back up!"
He's off, though, callin' Mrs. Stanton Bliss. And before I can escape
he's sickin' her on real enthusiastic. Also there's Vee urgin' me to
see if I can't do something to locate Wilfred. So I had to make the
stab.
"Got that wire with you?" I asks.
Yes, Mrs. Bliss had all the documents right handy. I takes the yellow
sheet over under the readin' lamp and squints at it sleuthy, partly to
kill time, and partly because I couldn't think of anything else to do.
And of course they all have to gather round and watch me close, as if I
was about to pull some miracle. Foolish! It was a great deal worse than
that.
"H-m-m-m-m!" says I. "Philadelphia. I suppose there's some sort of naval
trainin' station there, eh?"
Mr. Robert says there is.
"But if Wilfred was at it," I goes on, "and didn't want you to find him,
he wouldn't have sent this from there, would he?"
Mrs. Stanton Bliss sighs. "I'm sure I don't know," says she. "I--I
suppose not."
"Must be somewhere within strikin' distance of Philadelphia, though,"
says I. "Now, what camp is near?"
"Couldn't we wire someone in Washington and find out?" asks Mrs. Bliss.
"Sure," says I. "And we'd get an official answer from the Secretary of
War about 11 A.M. next spring. It'll be a lot quicker to call up Whitey
Weeks."
They don't know everything in newspaper offices, but there are mighty
few things they can't find out. Whitey, though, didn't even have to
consult the copy desk or the clippin' bureau.
"About the nearest big one," says he, "is the Ambulance Corps Camp at
Allentown. Somewhere up on the Lehigh. S'long."
Here was another jolt for Mrs. Stanton Bliss. The Ambulance Corps! She
near keeled over again, just hearin' me say it. Oh, oh! Did I really
believe Wilfred could have been as rash as that?
"Why," says she, "they drive right up to the trenches, don't they? Isn't
that fearfully dangerous?"
"War isn't a parlor pastime," puts in Mr. Robert. "And the ambulance
drivers take their chances with the rest of the men. But there's no
fightin' going on at Allentown. If Wilfred is there----"
"If he is," cuts in Mrs. Bliss, "I must go to him this very moment."
Some way that statement seemed to cheer Mr. Robert up a lot.
"Naturally," says he. "I'll look up a train for you. Just a second. In
the A's. Allentown--Allen. Ah, page 156. M-m-m. Here you are. First one
starts at 2 A.M. and gets you in at 5.15. Will that do?"
Mrs. Bliss turns on him sort of dazed, and blinks them round eyes of
hers. She's a fairly well put up old girl, you know, built sort of on
the pouter-pigeon type, but with good lines below the waist, and a
complexion that she's taken lots of pains with. Dresses real classy,
and, back to, she's often mistaken for daughter Marion. Travels in quite
a gay bunch, I understand, with Mr. Stanton Bliss kind of trailin' along
behind. Usually, when she ain't indulgin' in hysterics, she has very
fetchin' kittenish ways. You know the kind. Their specialty's makin' the
surroundin' males jump through the hoop for 'em. But when it comes to
arrivin' anywhere at 5.15 A.M.--well, not for her.
"I should be a sight," says she.
"You'd still be a mother, wouldn't you?" asks Mr. Robert.
It was rough of him, as he was given to understand by the looks of all
three ladies present, includin' Mrs. Robert; so he tries to square
himself by lookin' up a ten o'clock train, all Pullman, with diner and
observation.
"I would gladly take you up myself," says he, lyin' fluent, "if I
didn't have to go back to my boat. But here is Torchy. He'll go, I
suppose."
"Of course," says Vee.
And that's how I came to be occupyin' drawin'-room A, along with mother
and sister Marion, as we breezes up into the Pennsylvania hills on this
Wilfred hunt. A gushy, giggly young party Marion is, but she turns out
to be quite a help. It was her who spots the two young soldiers driftin'
through towards the smokin' compartment, and suggests that maybe they're
goin' to the same camp.
"And they would know if Wilfred was there, wouldn't they?" she adds.
"Maybe," says I. "I'll go ask."
Nice, clean-cut young chaps they was. They'd stretched out comfortable
on the leather seats, and was enjoyin' a perfectly good smoke, until I
shows up. The minute I appears, though, they chucks their cigars and
jumps up, heels together, right hand to the hat-brim. That's what I get
by havin' this dinky bar on my shoulders.
"Can it, boys," says I. "This is unofficial."
"At ease, sir?" suggests one.
"As easy as you know how," says I.
Yes, they says they're ambulancers; on their way back to Allentown,
too. But they didn't happen to know of any Wilfred Stanton Bliss there.
"You see, sir," says one, "there are about five thousand of us, so he
might----"
"Sure!" says I. "But mother'll want an affidavit. Would you mind
droppin' in and bein' cross-examined? There's sister Marion, too."
Obligin' chaps, they were; let me tow 'em into the drawin'-room,
listened patient while Mrs. Bliss described just how Wilfred looked, and
tried their best to remember havin' seen such a party. Also they gave
her their expert opinion on how long the war was goin' to last, when
Wilfred would be sent over, and what chances he stood of comin' back
without a scratch.
Once more it was Marion who threw the switch.
"Tell me," says she, "will he be wearing a uniform just like yours?"
They said he would.
"Oh!" gurgles Marion, "I think it is perfectly spiffy. Don't you,
mother? I'm just crazy to see Wilfred in one."
Mother catches the enthusiasm. "My noble boy!" says she, rollin' her
eyes up.
From then on she's quite chipper. The idea of findin' sonny made over
into a smart, dashin' soldier seemed to crowd out all the panicky
thoughts she'd been havin'. From little hints she let drop, I judged
that she was already picturin' him as a gallant hero, struttin' around
haughty and givin' off stern commands. Maybe he'd been made a captain or
something. Surely they would soon see that her Wilfred ought to be an
officer of some kind.
"And we must have his portrait painted," she remarks, claspin' her hands
excited as the happy thought strikes her.
The boys looked steady out of the window and managed to smother the
smiles. I imagine they'd seen all sorts of mothers come to camp.
It's a lively little burg, Allentown, even if I didn't know it was on
the map before. At the station you take a trolley that runs straight
through the town and out to the fair grounds, where the camp is located.
Goin' up the hill, you pass through the square and by the Soldiers'
Monument. Say, it's some monument, too. Then out a long street lined
with nice, comfortable-lookin' homes, until you get a glimpse of blue
hills rollin' away as far as you can see, and there you are.
The boys piloted us past the guard at the gates, through a grove of
trees, and left us at the information bureau, where a soldier wearin'
shell-rimmed glasses listened patient while mother and sister both
talked at once.
"Bliss? Just a moment," says he, reachin' for a card-index box. "Yes,
ma'am. Wilfred Stanton. He's here."
"But where?" demands Mrs. Bliss.
"Why," says the soldier, "he's listed with the casuals just now.
Quartered in the cow-barn."
"The--the cow-barn!" gasps Mrs. Bliss.
The soldier grins.
"It's over that way," says he, wavin' his hand. "Anyone will tell you."
They did. We wandered on and on, past the parade ground that used to be
the trottin' track, past new barracks that was being knocked together
hasty, until we comes to this dingy white buildin' with all the
underwear hung up to dry around it. I took one glance inside, where the
cots was stacked in thick and soldiers was loafin' around in various
stages of dress and undress, and then I shooed mother and sister off a
ways while I went scoutin' in alone. At a desk made out of a
packin'-box I found a chap hammerin' away at a typewriter. He salutes
and goes to attention.
"Yes, sir," says he, when I've told him who I'm lookin' for. "Squeaky
Bliss. But he's on duty just now, sir."
I suggests that his mother and sister are here and would like to have a
glimpse of him right away.
"They'd better wait until after five, sir," says he.
"I wouldn't like to try holdin' 'em in that long," says I.
"Very well, sir," says he. "Squeaky's on fatigue. Somewhere down at the
further end of the grand stand you might catch him. But if it's his
mother--well, I'd wait."
I passes this advice on to Mrs. Bliss.
"The idea!" says she. "I wish to see my noble soldier boy at once.
Come."
So we went. There was no scarcity of young fellows in olive drab. The
place was thick with 'em. Squads were drillin' every way you looked, and
out in the center of the field, where two or three hundred new
ambulances were lined up, more squads were studyin' the insides of the
motor, or practicin' loadin' in stretchers. Hundreds and hundreds of
young fellows in uniform, all lookin' just alike. I didn't wonder that
mother couldn't pick out sonny boy.
"What was it that man said?" she asks. "Wilfred on fatigue. Does that
mean he is resting?"
"Not exactly," says I.
About then sister Marion begins to exhibit jumpy emotions.
"Mother! Mother!" says she, starin' straight ahead. "Look!"
All I could see was a greasy old truck backed up in front of some low
windows under the grand stand, with half a dozen young toughs in smeary
blue overalls jugglin' a load of galvanized iron cans. Looked like
garbage cans; smelled that way too. And the gang that was handlin'
'em--well, most of 'em had had their heads shaved, and in that rig they
certainly did look like a bunch from Sing Sing.
I was just nudgin' sister to move along, when Mrs. Bliss lets out this
choky cry:
"Wilfred!" says she.
She hadn't made any mistake, either. It was sonny, all right. And you
should have seen his face as he swings around and finds who's watchin'
him. If it hadn't been for the bunkie who was helpin' him lift that can
of sloppy stuff on to the tail of the truck, there'd been a fine spill,
too.
"My boy! Wilfred!" calls Mrs. Stanton Bliss, holdin' out her arms
invitin' and dramatic.
Now, in the first place, Wilfred was in no shape to be the party of the
second part in a motherly clinch act. It's messy work, loadin' garbage
cans, and he's peeled down for it. He was costumed in a pair of overalls
that would have stood in the corner all by themselves, and an army
undershirt with one sleeve half ripped off.
In the second place, all the rest of the bunch was wearin' broad grins,
and he knew it. So he don't rush over at once. Instead he steps around
to the front of the truck and salutes a husky, freckled-necked young
sergeant who's sittin' behind the steerin' wheel.
"Family, sir," says Wilfred. "What--what'll I do?"
The sergeant takes one look over his shoulder.
"Oh, well," says he, "drop out until next load."
Not until Wilfred had led us around the corner does he express his
feelin's.
"For the love of Mike, mother!" says he. "Wasn't it bad enough without
your springin' that 'muh boy!' stuff? Right before all the fellows,
too. Good-night!"
"But, Wilfred," insists mother, "what does this mean? Why do I find
you--well, like this? Oh, it's too dreadful for words. Who has done this
to you--and why?"
Jerky, little by little, Wilfred sketches out the answer. Army life
wasn't what he'd expected. Not at all. He was sore on the whole
business. He'd been let in for it, that was all. It wasn't so bad for
some of the fellows, but they'd been lucky. As for him--well, he'd come
here to learn to be an ambulance driver, and he had spent his first week
in the kitchen, peelin' potatoes. Then, when they'd let him off that,
and given him his first pass to go to town, just because he'd been a
little late comin' back they'd jumped on him somethin' fierce. They'd
shoved him on this garbage detail. He'd been on it ever since.
"It's that mucker of a top sergeant, Quigley," says Wilfred. "He's got
it in for me."
Mrs. Stanton Bliss straightens out her chin dimple as she glares after
the garbage truck, which is rollin' away in the distance.
"Has he, indeed!" says she. "We will see about that, then."
"But you must handle him easy, mother," warns Wilfred.
"That person!" snorts mother. "I shall have nothing to do with him
whatever. I mean to get you out of this, Wilfred. I am going straight to
the general."
"Now, mother!" protests Wilfred. "Don't make a scene."
When she was properly stirred up, though, that was mother's long suit.
And she starts right in. Course, I tried to head her off, but it's no
use. As there wasn't a general handy, she had to be satisfied with a
major. Seemed like a mighty busy major, too; but when he heard his
orderly tryin' to shunt the ladies, he gives the signal to let 'em in.
You can bet I didn't follow. Didn't have to, for Mrs. Bliss wasn't doin'
any whisperin' about then.
And she sure made it plain to the major how little she thought of the U.
S. Army, and specially that part of it located at Allentown, Pa. Havin'
got that off her chest, and been listened to patient, she demands that
Wilfred be excused from all his disgustin' duties, and be allowed to go
home with her at once and for good.
The major shakes his head. "Impossible!" says he.
"Then," says Mrs. Stanton Bliss, tossin' her head, "I shall appeal to
the Secretary of War; to the President, if necessary."
The major smiles weary. "You'd best talk to his sergeant," says he. "If
he recommends your son's discharge it may go through."
"That person!" exclaims Mrs. Bliss. "Never! I--I might talk to his
captain."
"Useless, madam," says the major. "See his sergeant; he's the one."
And he signifies polite that the interview is over.
When mother tells sonny the result of this visit to headquarters, he
shrugs his shoulders.
"I knew it would be that way," says he. "They've got me, and I've got to
stand for it. No use askin' Quigley. You might as well go home."
"But at least you can get away long enough to have dinner with us," says
mother.
"Nothing doin'," says Wilfred. "Can't get out unless Quigley signs a
pass, and he won't."
"Oh, come!" says I. "He don't look so bad as all that. Let me see what I
can do with him."
Well, after I'd chased the ladies back to the hotel with instructions to
wait hopeful, I hunts up Top Sergeant Quigley. Had quite a revealin'
chat with him, too. Come to look at him close after he'd washed up, he's
rather decent appearin'. Face seems sort of familiar, too.
"Didn't you play first base for the Fordhams?" I asks.
"Oh, that was back in '14," says he.
"As I remember," says I, "you was some star on the bag, though. Now,
about young Bliss. Case of mommer's pet, you know."
"He had that tag all over him," says Quigley. "But we're knockin' a lot
of that out of him. He's comin' on."
"Good!" says I. "Would it stop the process to let him off for an evenin'
with the folks--dinner and so on?"
"Why, no; I guess not," says Quigley. "Might do him good. But he must
apply himself. Send him along."
So a half hour later I sat on a cot in the cow-barn and watched Wilfred,
fresh from the shower bath, get into his army uniform.
"Say," he remarks, strugglin' through his khaki shirt, "I didn't think
old Quig would do it."
"Seemed glad to," says I. "Said you was comin' on fine."
"He did?" gasps Wilfred. "Quigley? Well, what do you know!"
Not such a bad imitation of a soldier, Wilfred, when he'd laced up the
leggins and got the snappy-cut coat buttoned tight. He's some different
from what he was when sister first discovered him. And we had quite a
gay dinner together.
First off mother was for campin' right down there indefinitely, where
she could see her darlin' boy every day; but between Wilfred and me we
persuaded her different. I expect the hotel quarters had something to do
with it, too. Anyway, after Wilfred had promised to try for a couple of
days off soon, for a visit home, she consents to start back in the
mornin'.
"What I dread most, Wilfred," says she, "is leaving you at the mercy of
that horrid sergeant."
"Oh, I'll get along with him somehow," says Wilfred. "I'm goin' to try,
anyway."
And right there, as I understand it, Wilfred Stanton Bliss started to be
a man and a soldier. He had a long way to go, though, it seemed to me.
So here the other day, only a couple of weeks since we made our trip,
I'm some surprised to see who it is givin' me the zippy salute on the
station platform out home. Yes, it's Wilfred. And say, he's got his
shoulders squared, he's carryin' his chin up, and he's wearin' his
uniform like it grew on him.
"Well, well!" says I. "Got your furlough, eh?"
"Yes, sir," says he. "Seventy-two hours. Had a whale of a time, too. You
can't guess who I brought home with me, I'll bet."
I couldn't.
"Our top sergeant--Quigley," says he. "Say, he's all right. He's had us
transferred to the best barracks in camp. Guess we deserve it, too, for
we're on the way to bein' the crackerjack section of them all. You ought
to see us drill. Some class! And it's all due to Quigley. Do you know
what he thinks? That we're slated among the next lot to go over. How
about that, sir? Won't that be great?"
"Huh!" says I. "How long ago was it you signed up, Wilfred?"
"Just six weeks, sir," says he.
"Whiffo!" says I, gawpin' at him. "If we had about a hundred thousand
Quigleys!"