II

They landed eventually and a code signal went back overseas at once,

liberating several thousand post cards announcing their safe arrival.

And a certain girl who lived near the port of debarkation and had been

meeting the postman every morning for some time, got three of them. Two

of them she put in her desk and the third one she put in the pocket of

her sweater and carried with her. It is too soon to tell which one that

was. But her mother found it and took it to her father—pretty well worn

it was by that time—and he said: “The kiddie’s always off at some sort

of a tangent. She’ll forget him in a week.”

“She isn’t eating.”

“Probably eating between meals,” he said callously. “Ice-cream sodas and

that sort of stuff. Cut her allowance.”

But a morning or two later at breakfast he said over the morning paper:

“Looks as though Charlie wouldn’t get any fighting after all. They’re

breaking fast.”

Charlie was the general.

“Damned shame too,” he added.

“Father!” said a choked voice. “How can you? Wouldn’t you be glad if it

was all over? And they’d all come home and—”

Here the girl lost her voice and left the table in a hurry.

“Humph!” said her father thoughtfully. “What was the name on that card?”

And on hearing it: “Better take her down to Aiken for a few weeks,” he

said. “She’s got some sort of a bee in her bonnet.”

“She has,” said her mother grimly. “She can tell you herself. I won’t.”

But of course she did, almost immediately, and the cook in the kitchen

heard a loud roaring from the dining room and slipped into the pantry to

listen.

“Never!” said the roaring voice. “Never, with my consent. D’you think

I’ve lost my mind? Send her here! I’ll tell her! I’ll settle this

matter! This is one time when I shall assert myself in my own family.”

So they sent for the girl and she came and he asserted himself for

fifteen minutes. At the end of which time he apologised. Then he argued

for fifteen minutes, at the end of which he was perspiring and humble.

At the end of an hour he was a cringing, pleading male, offering bribes

of new cars and saddle horses; and was only met with something like

this, delivered in a gentle patient tone:

“I only feel that it is my duty, father dear. Of course I cannot expect

you to understand. It is the call of my country. I must accept. Some one

person out of this family ought to do something.”

“Your brother is over there fighting.”

“Exactly,” she said in her patient way. “And millions of other people’s

brothers to be looked after.”

“What d’you mean then—some ‘one’ person?” he persisted, sensing a gibe.

“From the three of us.”

“Look here,” he thundered, “aren’t we working? Haven’t I ruined my voice

for the Liberty Loan?”

“Not noticeably,” she said coldly.

But everybody knows the rest of that conversation. It took place in

about a million homes, and in a certain fixed percentage of instances it

ended in a trip to Washington and certain tearful fittings of girlish

uniforms. And in the end one blue-and-white or pink-and-white bedroom

being closed off; and certain sheepish visits to its emptiness; and a

renewed, terrified scanning of the daily papers for submarine sinkings.

From which it will be seen that the girl did not go to Aiken. That is

the story.

The curious thing about this story is that it is a war story without any

war in it whatever. Of course the people at home did not know that.

Sergeant Gray’s family, playing golf at Del Monte, always visualised him

as a sort of storm centre for Hun strafing. They considered that German

shells would seek him as orange juice seeks the eye. And Peggy’s people

saw her wandering over battlefields at night, stooping ever and anon

amid flying bullets to soothe the wounded, and perhaps being captured by

the enemy.

But the real facts were rather different. Not that the girl wouldn’t

have gone straight into the jaws of hell if she had had a chance, or

that Sergeant Gray wouldn’t have done his fair share of the fighting and

considerable more. They were both just out of luck, that’s all.

It was late summer when the division reached France and went into

training in the general direction of the Front. It had been trained

pretty fine already and was reported to G. H. Q. as being in first-class

condition by a lot of inspectors-general—nicknamed the Pickwick Club by

the general in confidence to the chief of staff.

The general had a compartment in the train going up, and he took the

chief of staff in with him and put Sergeant Gray in an upper berth

because it might be necessary to speak French during the night. He had

been studying French himself, but the French didn’t seem to know their

own language, and when he got excited he mixed considerable Filipino

Spanish in it and it was rather like a salad.

Tommy had been missing when the arrangement was made, and sometime after

midnight he turned up and in—on the floor of the compartment. He was

sleeping there quite peacefully when a German shell struck him in the

chest and a startled voice belonging to Sergeant Gray said: “Awfully

sorry, sir. Just wanted to get a drink of water. Had no idea you were

there.” He thought he had jumped on the general.

“Wuf!” coughed Tommy, holding his chest. “Wuf! Wuf! What the dickens do

you mean—trying to murder me?”

Sergeant Gray listened. The general was wide awake by that time, but

continued to snore.

“Why the devil don’t you sleep where you belong then?” whispered

Sergeant Gray furiously. “I’ve sprained my ankle on you.”

The next snore the general gave sounded strangely like a snort.

Now I am perfectly aware that in our Army no commissioned officer swears

at a noncom, and that if he ever did the noncom would of course not

swear back. But it must constantly be remembered that the situation

between Tommy and Sergeant Gray was extramilitary. It was man to man. It

was Yale to Harvard and Harvard to Yale. And it was jealousy to

jealousy.

Well, they got to their area finally and did the usual things, such as

getting rid of the manure heaps in the street and learning to brush

their teeth in the mornings while the astounded French populace looked

on. Except the officers, they washed mostly in the street at the town

pump and drill over, they bought chocolate sweetened with saccharin, and

writing paper and _vin ordinaire_ at the little shops. They grew quite

accustomed to cows breaking through their ranks when they were drawn up

for the solemn ceremony of retreat; and to having these same cows wander

at night into the stables where some of them were billeted and lie down

with them to pleasant dreams. And they gave their monkey meat and tin

willie to the French children and their extra underwear—finding how

badly they needed it—and bought green cheese at the cheese shop, and

had to report to the regimental doctor afterward.

But always, always, they waited for the order to move up to the Front.

And it did not come.

The Headquarters Troop got very low in its mind. There they were, on

their toes to get to work, and life consisted of trucking every blasted

thing they needed six kilometres from a railhead, fighting the military

police for diversion and as usual attempting to evade the early-morning

shave by liberal applications of talcum powder to jaws and upper lips.

They had been there about five weeks when William, arriving in the

kitchen for breakfast after helping the general into his clothes,

announced that the general was sick.

“Or if he ain’t he’s goin’ to be,” he asserted. “He was readin’ the

morning mail and talkin’ to himself something awful. Then I give him the

last of that there grapefruit we brought over, and all at once he give a

yell and I ain’t seen him since.”

“Where’s the grapefruit?” inquired Sergeant Gray anxiously. As

sergeant-orderly he was now a part of the household and ate in the

kitchen. He didn’t mind that at all, but it gave him an uncomfortable

sense sometimes of being warmer and better fed than the other fellows.

It was awfully good for him, too, being an excellent offset to being a

spoiled only son. Every now and then he helped the cooks pare the

potatoes. But he sometimes wondered about his mother playing golf in

California. He was afraid she might think she hadn’t raised her boy to

be a potato parer.

“If you ate that grapefruit!” he threatened William.

“It’s there—unless the aide-de-camps’ve got it,” said William. “They’re

like these here vacuum cleaners, them aide-de-camps. They—”

Sergeant Gray, who was of the age that is always hungry, tiptoed into

the hall of the little French house and gazed into the dining room

across. The grapefruit was there, and sitting behind it was Tommy,

booted and spurred, with a new riding crop on the table and a fresh

morning shave and a very feminine-looking letter in his hand. A hot wave

of jealousy flashed over Sergeant Gray.

Tommy glanced up.

“Sergeant!”

“Yes, sir,” said Sergeant Gray with suspicious eyes on the letter.

“Bring me some powdered sugar.”

“Sir?” said Sergeant Gray.

“Powdered sugar,” repeated Tommy in a cold voice.

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“You heard me!” bawled Tommy. “Sugar! Powdered sugar!”

Now a sergeant-orderly has many duties. They consist frequently in doing

anything that the proper person for the job may flunk. He may be put to

anything from raking the general’s lawn to leading a platoon over the

top in battle. But there is nothing in the regulations about powdered

sugar.

“Yes, sir,” said Sergeant Gray, and retired to the kitchen. It was

empty.

“Sugar,” muttered Sergeant Gray furiously. “I’ll see him in blazes

first. Sugar!” He sat down.

“Sergeant!” came a very military voice from across the hall.

“Sugar! I’ll sugar him!” mumbled Sergeant Gray, glancing round the

kitchen.

Almost thirty seconds later he stalked into the dining room and placed a

bowl before Tommy, and Tommy—feeling the magnanimity of

victory—observed that it was a nice morning.

“Yes, sir,” said Sergeant Gray, and retired, taking Tommy’s glass of

water with him, ostensibly to refill it. Having done that he proceeded

systematically to empty the water pails in the kitchen.

It was only an instant after that that he heard wild and choking speech

from the dining room, and ran in. Tommy was on his feet making hideous

grimaces.

“Water!” he yelled. “Quick! Get me some water! I’m poisoned! I’m—”

“Just discovered there isn’t any water, sir,” said Sergeant Gray. “I’ll

run to the town pump for some, sir.”

Tommy, however, shot past him to the kitchen and was making a frenzied

round of the water pails. Finding none, however, he poured some scalding

coffee instead and but substituted one agony for another.

“Awfully sorry, sir,” said Sergeant Gray in the tone one uses to a sick

child. “If I can do anything—”

Tommy steadied himself with an effort and confronted him.

“Gray, what did you bring me for sugar?”

“For sugar? Wasn’t it sugar, sir?”

“You know darned well it wasn’t sugar.”

“It was in a box,” protested Sergeant Gray in an aggrieved voice. “I’m

no cook, sir, but it looked like sugar. If you didn’t notice the

difference yourself, sir—”

Tommy looked at him speechlessly and went out. And Sergeant Gray’s smile

was a mirthless one, for there was the edge of a pink envelope sticking

out of the breast pocket of Tommy’s blouse.

It is most unfortunate to have to record that that day the general

developed mumps. It was given out in the division as bronchitis, of

course, and the general lay in a high French bed and roared orders to

the chief of staff outside the door and threw a puttee at William when

he suggested a hot lemonade. But part of the time he lay in the bed and

nursed two grievances: First, that the Germans were breaking fast and

unless they moved up soon they might as well not move at all. And

second, that his family had had an attack of insanity and had allowed

Peggy to come to France. He considered that girls were of two kinds: The

ones to be taken care of and babied and have their railroad tickets

bought for them and the automobile rug tucked in round them and a kiss

for every birthday and one to grow on. And the others. The general’s

niece belonged to the first kind.

She was in Paris.

“I’m going to come to see you before I really settle down to work,” she

had written. “Lots of people here say I can’t do it; but I saw the

nicest general yesterday and two colonels to-day. They all seem to be

going in your direction soon and they all think you are a perfectly

wonderful soldier and that if anything happens to General Pershing,

which of course we mustn’t hope for—”

“Little minx!” said the general. “She’ll have the whole general staff

eating out of her hand in a week!”

“And I’ll be in a pretty pickle if she comes here.”

However, the word pickle brought a terrible pain immediately in front of

his ears and changed the trend of his thoughts.

The general had considerable time to think during the next few days.

Mostly he thought about war and what wires he could pull to get to the

Front. But he also thought about Peggy and Tommy and Sergeant Gray. He

was a very wise man and he considered it unlikely that pure family

affection was bringing the girl to visit him. Which was it then? Gray or

Tommy? The general decided that it was Gray by a very easy method. He

simply tried to think which one he would choose if he were a pretty girl

and twenty, and he decided that it would be Gray.

Yes, the girl was only twenty. She had fibbed about her age a bit to get

over; but, then, a good many others did. Only it was unfortunate that

she had antedated her birth a number of years before her parents were

married.

It was some days later that the general told Tommy she was coming. Tommy

stood in the doorway, very rigid and trying not to inhale germs, and

acknowledged that he, too, had had a letter.

“She can’t stay here,” said the general. “Don’t know how the deuce she’s

put it over, anyhow. Against every regulation. Likely to make trouble

all round. You fellows will have to look after her, y’know. Only going

to keep her one day.”

“I was wondering, sir,” said Tommy, “if I could get Paris leave for a

day or two. I need some uniforms, sir. Not immediately, sir,” he added

hastily, seeing something in the general’s eye. He had no mind to be

sent back to Paris while she was in camp.

“I’ll see about it.”

“And—if you are well enough to talk, sir—”

“I’m not,” said the general fretfully. “What is it?”

“I have been thinking about Gray, sir. I understand he is anxious for a

commission and that you are thinking of— The recommendations for the

candidates’ school are ready to be filled out.”

There was a small twinkle in the general’s eye.

“Run away and play, Tommy,” he said. “There are moments when I realise

my age and general unfitness for the service. But I’m still running this

division, thank God! And you might intimate as much to the chief of

staff sometime.”

Left alone, the general reflected.

“Now Gray,” he considered, “wouldn’t have done that. He’ll use his wits

or his fists or both. But I miss my guess if he’d try to put Tommy out

of the way.”

Here, however, he dozed off and was only awakened by the arrival of the

storm centre, accompanied by two very important general officers and a

fatuous captain, who had tucked her up most of the way in the motor and

already had the light of insanity in his eyes.

“Mumps!” she said to Tommy. “Why, the poor old dear! Then I’m going to

stay right here and nurse him.”

“He needs you,” said Tommy in a maudlin tone. “He needs you awfully. We

can put you up, you know. We—”

But she was not listening to Tommy. As a matter of fact, for the last

thirty miles she had not heard a thing the general officers said, such

as: “It was the plan, in case the enemy reached this point—” or: “These

buildings on the right contain engineers’ stores. Those are pontoons for

bridges.” Or even the captain: “Are you quite sure your feet are warm?”

She was homing like a pigeon, though she did not know it.

She greeted them all: the judge advocate, who was not really so

formidable as his title and should have been in his office at

headquarters quarrelling with the mayor about taking over the town hall;

and the chaplain, who had an open tenderness for her—only he would have

called it _tendresse_ now; and such of the staff as could pretend it had

business there; and naturally all the aides. And then she saw Sergeant

Gray.

Now it is hard to say just how she had thought of Sergeant Gray. She had

always known that Tommy, for instance, and the others, would be living

comfortably somewhere and mostly sending out orders to fight and that

sort of thing. But Gray was different. She had always pictured him in

his helmet, one of a long grim line crouched waiting to go over the top.

She had had a number of such pictures of him stored away, but she had

not exactly anticipated finding him in charge of a detail cleaning out

the town well.

Yet when she looked down the narrow street that is precisely what he was

doing. She looked away for fear he might feel uncomfortable and said at

once:

“How military you all look! You’re so imposing. Some of you may have

noticed,” she added, “that I am in uniform myself.” But she was really

saying to herself fiercely that it took all sorts of things to make a

war, and certainly clean drinking water was one of them.

So Sergeant Gray kept on with his work and found a number of things that

the French population had missed for years, and had continued healthy in

spite of, and the general’s official family surrounded one member of his

personal family, and clanking with spurs and swollen with rank, took

Peggy inside. The odds were certainly Tommy’s that afternoon.