A MAIDEN SLEEPS WITH AN ARMY
—1—
If there’s one kind of scenery I like more than anything, it’s a winter
landscape of rolling hills and evergreen trees laden with snow. Usually
the sight of a snowy outdoors is very comforting—but not so that day.
Every time I noticed the snow—and it had been falling thick and fast
since early Sunday morning—it reminded me that Leon had to get back
here that afternoon, and between Vyvy and the snowstorm, there was
absolutely no telling whether he’d show up or not. So there was nothing
very comfy about that snowstorm. Of course, it would do something like
this at just this time. My luck again!
I was on the go all morning. General Backett certainly did believe in
keeping busy. I discovered that morning that he was too old for regular
duty and no doubt that was why he worked so hard: he evidently wanted to
demonstrate his ability to stand the wear and tear, in the hope that he
would get some kind of an active command after we reached France. “We,”
did I say? Which just goes to prove how easy it is to lose one’s
identity: I kept thinking that I was going with the General, instead of
Leon. It seemed perfectly natural, as if I had been expecting it for
months.
Well, I wasn’t going, so what was the sense of these foolish visions?
And yet, it did seem perfectly natural for me to be chasing around
getting my equipment checked and replenished and then leaving it spread
out for inspection. Even that morning at first call, I rolled out as
pretty as you please, grabbed a towel and rushed for the water-trough,
scrubbed my teeth, washed my face in the cold water, emitted a few
curses just to keep up with the other fellows, rushed back, combed my
hair (that was rather awkward, I imagine) and ran out with the rest of
them to the mess hall. That much was good fun, even though I already had
noticed the snowstorm.
From breakfast on, however, my worries piled up just about as fast as
the snow heaped up outside. On the go every minute, doing a lot of
things that I knew nothing whatever about, chasing errands, reporting
this to that officer and that to this officer and running all over the
place like a chicken sans head. All of which I would have enjoyed, if it
weren’t for this doubt about Leon.
This doubt increased steadily, for some inexplicable reason. I could
just see him at home there with Vyvy, hating like the very devil to
think of going back. He probably watched that snowstorm with
fascination, and kept putting off and putting off the moment of his
departure. I could understand how he felt: he hated the camp and he
hated to leave his Vyvy, and I knew he spent all morning trying to
decide whether the outfit really would leave that night. I finally
decided to telephone him, if he hadn’t come by noon, but when noon came
I found that I couldn’t get out until later and had to put off that
project.
Meanwhile, I had the shock of my life, for who should appear but Jay-Jay
himself. I tried to duck—it was just my damned luck to bump into him
anyway, for he didn’t know where Leon was supposed to be in this
camp—but he spied me and called, so I had to face him. Believe me, I
did some tall trembling at that moment, although I realized that if
worse came to worst and he did recognize me, I could make him see the
joke of it and keep his mouth shut about me. I just waited to see what
he would do.
“How are you, Leon?” he asked, sticking out his hand to be shaken.
“Thought you would be in Wakeham this week-end.”
Well, what was I to say? I thought fast, believe me. I couldn’t say I
hadn’t gone, because then later he would go home and perhaps run into
Vyvy or Auntie or someone else who was at Vyvy’s party and then he’d
probably learn that Leon was there. While I pondered frantically, my eye
fell on his wrist watch and noted that it was just a little before two
o’clock.
“Why—,” I stammered, “I did go home—just got back about half an hour
ago.”
He looked at me kinda funny. “Your voice has changed, hasn’t it?” he
inquired abruptly.
I laughed. “God, yes—everything about me’s changed,” I declared. “This
damned army life changes you so you hardly recognize yourself.” I
grimaced as if disgusted with the whole business.
“You must have had a skiddy trip down,” he observed then. “Rather rotten
for driving, eh?”
“Don’t mention it!” I exclaimed. “It was one hell of a trip! Leona came
with me, in spite of Aunt Elinor’s objections, and she started right
back. God only knows when or how she’ll get there in this weather.”
“She did?” he repeated. “Dammit, I wish I had known that. I’d like to
have seen her. Don’t know when I’ll get to New York again. This is the
nearest I’ve been for several weeks.”
“Been transferred, or something?” I asked, and offered him a cigarette,
which he accepted before replying. “Got a match?” I certainly did try my
best to sound matter-of-fact, despite the fact that this was the first
time in my life I ever asked a man for a match.
“Sure—” And he produced a box, gave me a light, served himself, and
continued, “Why, no, no transfer—just a rearrangement of the work we’re
doing. Means a lot of jumping around for me. Been down South the past
three weeks, came over here from Washington yesterday and will be here
until the middle of the week, when I move again.”
“Interesting work?” I inquired.
“Not very—I’m getting fed up on it. I’m even considering applying for a
transfer so I can go over. After all, a man might as well be in the
middle of this business.”
I nodded, and smiled—this didn’t sound like Jay-Jay. I wondered if my
ultimatum to him had had this effect.
“I say,” he suddenly interrupted. “Why don’t we have dinner together
this evening, or to-morrow evening?”
I almost blurted out “I’d love to”—which was the natural thing to
say—but I caught myself and said instead, “Gosh, I’d like to, but it
can’t be done to-night because I’m so busy I don’t know when I’ll be
free, and it can’t be done to-morrow because we’re leaving, I think,
to-night. Thanks a lot, though.”
“You’re leaving? Really?” he seemed completely astounded at this, but he
came back quickly, “Well—” He extended his hand again, “Good luck,
Leon. Be careful what you do with those mademoiselles and don’t drink
too much cognac on an empty stomach!”
“Don’t worry about the mademoiselles!” I replied with a laugh. “And good
luck to you. Hope we’ll meet over there.”
We parted and I breathed a mile-long sigh of relief. But after I reached
the office, I could smile at the thought of this odd meeting, and
particularly at the idea of Jay-Jay’s being so utterly dumb. I was sure
that if I saw my Captain in dresses and black paint, I’d recognize him
without any trouble at all—and I only saw him once in my life. Jay-Jay
certainly must have been stupid.
About fifteen minutes after this meeting, luck came my way for once. The
General decided suddenly that I could do some purchasing for him in
town. “Get a pass for an hour and pick up these things for me,” he said,
handing me a list of half a dozen things. I needed no urging; got the
pass from the non-com in charge, and departed at once.
You can guess what the first thing I did was: hunt up a telephone booth
that was secluded enough to allow me to say all I wanted to say. I found
one in a lunch room and put in a rush call to Wakeham.
I spent fifteen hectic minutes waiting for the call to come through and
when it did, I almost died of shock, for who answered the phone but my
dear darling twin!
I was speechless for a moment. Adequate words for my feelings could not
be spoken over the telephone, but I did try to give him a general idea
of what I really thought of him for not leaving very early that morning.
“But your Special Delivery just came, about five minutes ago,” he
declared. “I’ll leave in another five minutes.... But how am I going to
get in there again? How are we going to change back?”
“How the devil do I know? You get here! The rest can wait. I’ll wait for
you at the headquarters building.”
Aunt Elinor got on the line long enough to hear my voice. She sounded
rather shaky when she said, “I feel better after hearing your voice,
Leona dear.”
“I’ll see you in the morning, Auntie. Don’t worry.” And that was the end
of that.
And this was the end of this. I’d been gone much more than an hour and
my General was having forty fits by this time.
—2—
Several hours elapsed and my little adventure ceased to be interesting;
even though I talked to Auntie by phone again it didn’t make me feel any
brighter. Somehow or other, I felt damned pessimistic. I wished I had
kept my bright idea to myself, instead of getting into this
nerve-racking mess. Leon should have been there by this time, but he
wasn’t, and no one knew where he was. Auntie said he left before three
o’clock and had chains on the car, and he surely should be able to make
it in six hours, even in a snowstorm.
Auntie was on the verge of hysterics, I guess. “What can you do? What
can you do?” she kept asking.
“Why, I can’t do anything unless and until he gets here,” I told her.
“What do you expect me to do, go out hunting for him?” It struck me that
probably he had headed in the opposite direction. I suppose I really
shouldn’t say such rotten things about my brother, but I just couldn’t
help thinking things, knowing him as I did.
And then Auntie said something that gave me more to worry about. “Leon
couldn’t find Esky anywhere,” she declared weakly. “We haven’t seen him
since last night.”
I supposed the poor pup stayed out all night and would probably be down
with distemper when I got home. Of course, no one would think of looking
for him!
Auntie was enough to give anyone the willies when she got excited. “But,
Leona, you must do something! What if Leon has an accident and can’t get
there this evening? What will you do?”
As if there was anything I could do!
“You listen to me, Leona! If he doesn’t come pretty soon, you go right
up to that General and confess the whole business! I’m not going to be
worried like this!”
I had to laugh at that. She wasn’t going to be worried like this! And I
should tell the General! Why, they’d probably crucify me and send Leon
to Atlanta for life! I told her to sit tight and not to
worry—everything would straighten out sooner or later. “And I’m all
right, anyway,” I added for good measure. “Nothing to worry about.”
“Well—you call me the minute he arrives,” she insisted.
“Surely,” I agreed. “And if he doesn’t arrive—I mean if he calls you
and says he can’t get here, tell him to lie low until you hear from me.
If he doesn’t show up in time, I’ll send a letter to you for him. He’ll
have to stay out of sight if he doesn’t show up here.”
Well, I finally got away from that phone and back to my bunk. We were
going to Hoboken that night, as sure as my name was Leona Canwick. That
is, somebody was going—was it me?
But I couldn’t help wondering what I’d do if Leon didn’t arrive. I
couldn’t think of a thing to do except do what he would do if he were
here. I’d be in for one sweet time! If I got caught in this thing, thank
God I wouldn’t have to worry about one of those inspections for probably
a month. Perhaps I could figure out some way of evading it by that time.
But, oh, I did wish Leon would come! And I went back to the headquarters
building again to wait for him.
Something told me that he wasn’t anywhere near the camp! Any other man
would have got there, if he had to break both legs and a couple of ribs.
But not my dear sweet concaveman of a brother!
But as long as I was there, there was hope. When I left this camp,
sometime before midnight—or rather, if I had not left it before
that—the die would be cast, and there would certainly be hell to pay in
more ways than one.
What a wonderful adventure this had turned out to be!!!
—3—
It was late Sunday night. Leon had not arrived. It was what you might
call the eleventh hour and the fifty-ninth minute of this affair, and I
was taking it for granted that I was in the soup up to my ears. The die
apparently was cast. The Canwick blood seemed to have turned a sour
yellow in at least one spot. I didn’t know where Leon was, but I should
have assumed hours ago that he would not be there. I don’t know what I
could have done about it anyway, except confess and get us both in a
stew, but it got my goat to think that I forced myself into this
martyrdom. But I was in it—and that’s all there was to it.
O Leon, thou personification of courage, thou dear brave considerate
brother, I really felt more sorry for you than for myself. A man as
yellow as you was a fit object for the world’s pity! I offered to help
you with no idea that such consequences could be possible and with, I
now realized, a mistaken conception of my brother’s love and gratitude.
This situation ceased to be funny a long time ago and if I did not pity
him more than I hated him, I’d have given the whole show away before
this. And the joke of it was that no doubt he felt confident that I
would never do that.
And he was quite right: I would go through with my end of this thing in
spite of him and his yellow streak. No future day in this man’s army
could be any worse than the one I had just put in—and which was not
ended yet, so I felt sure that, barring accidents and given any lucky
breaks at all, I’d be better able to stand what was coming than he
would. If things ever got too bad, I’d throw up my part and let him take
the consequences. After all, if I got caught in this, he was the one
that would suffer. I doubt if he realized that!
However, being a generous and loving sister, I continued to give him the
benefit of every possible doubt; I continued to hope that he hadn’t
deliberately deserted me in this predicament. And I took it for granted
that he would at least be willing to do everything he could to protect
me, and later get me out of it. If he did as I told him in my letter,
without regard to his petty prejudices and silly comforts, he probably
would save me from all sorts of embarrassment and himself from any
amount of trouble and worry—for I could get along safely, if I was at
all lucky. I’d made up my mind to get along—to lick this game if I had
to kill off the general staff man by man.
I didn’t know where he was now, but he’d surely get in touch with Auntie
sometime soon, no matter where he was, and then she’d tell him what he
must do—unless she passed out from the shock before that. Leon must
stay away from Wakeham; even Vyvy must think he’d gone overseas. In my
letter to him I promised to send her a few lines of love and kisses now
and then to keep her happy.
I told him I’d write to him at Booneville—that was far enough away from
home and far enough back in the woods to be a safe place for him to
rusticate and hide for a while, until he could do something about me. He
could lose himself in New York easily enough, but then he might get
picked up somehow and made to enlist or do something. I suggested that
he take the name of Leonard Lane, and stay at Booneville for a while.
Auntie would have to let it leak out that I was down South or out West,
doing war work of some kind, like entertaining in the camps. Anyone who
knew me would accept that story easily. My letters to her would, of
course, be censored—unless I could manage to get them okayed by the
General. If censored, I’d have to send instructions to Leon in onion
juice: write a letter and interline it with other sentences written in
onion juice, then when he or she held it near heat, the invisible
onion-juice letters would be made visible. I knew it worked: we used to
do it when we were kids.
So far so good: but how was I going to get out of this? There was the
big problem, and the only answer I could see from here was for Leon to
get a passport, if necessary, and get over to France by hook or crook,
even if he had to work on a cattle boat or an oil tanker—anyway to get
there. The rest would be easy: we would switch and I’d come back in his
place.... Sounds reasonable in theory; I only hoped it would work out in
practice. It depended, of course, upon how eager Leon was to get
there—but—oh, hell, when that factor entered in, I might as well give
up, for he never was eager to do anything that might be hard work or
uncomfortable.
As far as I could see now, with everyone all packed up and waiting for
the C. O. to appear with the final word, my fate was lying helpless in
the lap of the gods. Which reminds me that I just by grace of God
remembered what Mark Twain or somebody like him said about telling the
difference between a girl and a boy: the General tossed a packet of
papers to me and I instinctively spread my legs to catch it in my
lap—and there wasn’t any lap there; but I saved the day by catching it
with my hand instead. I don’t suppose the General would have noticed
such a thing anyway. No reason why he should—but then I couldn’t be too
careful. I certainly had to watch my step.
I tried all evening to get away long enough so I could step out to a
hotel and have a decent bath. Those army clothes were kinda itchy and
uncomfortable when you were not used to them, and a bath would feel
fine—but how could I take a bath in camp? Or on the boat. Or when I got
to France? This was getting serious! And there were certain other things
that were bound to happen in due time, and from time to time, and would
have to be taken care of, regardless of soldiers, sailors, marines,
nurses and generals and in spite of war and hell. I could see from here
that I was going to have some very unpleasant moments in this man’s
army. I was certainly in a no-maid’s land!
Well—such is war! For Leon’s sake, as well as my own, I sincerely hoped
that he wasn’t foolish enough to appear there in the morning looking for
me: that would certainly be fatal. However, I wasn’t going to worry
about that—there was little or no danger of him being near there even
to-morrow. I told Auntie to tell him to stay away from there if he
couldn’t make it that night. And also for him to send me some money,
addressed to Divisional Headquarters. I didn’t have much more than the
price of a bath, and there was a lot of things I’d got to have before
many days elapsed.
All packed up, from tooth brush to absorbent cotton. Bring on your
damned old war!
No sooner said than done: came the C.O. His voice was like the bell that
summoned me to heaven or to hell.
And, my God, what was this I saw before me?
—4—
I had a moment of renewed hope when Esky appeared just as the C. O., a
pussyfooting lieutenant named Blaines, was giving the final
instructions. I thought for the moment that perhaps the pup’s presence
meant that Leon was about. But I recalled, next moment, that Auntie had
said the dog was nowhere to be found when Leon left, so apparently Esky
had padded along through all that snow and hadn’t seen Leon at all.
The poor pup was all in. He dragged himself up on the bunk and put his
head in my lap, perfectly happy to be there and have me rub his ears. I
tried to get him off the bunk before the Lieutenant saw him, but Esky
could be stubborn when he wanted to be, and refused to move, with the
result that a few moments later this Lieutenant Blaines came along and
spied him.
“Whose dog is that?” he demanded of me.
“Mine, sir,” I replied. The very tone of his voice grated on my nerves.
I had met him before: he was some kind of an aide to General Backett,
and he was in and out several times the day before. His full name was
Chilton Blaines, and I didn’t think the General had a great deal of use
for either his intelligence or his personality.
So I didn’t attempt any evasion about Esky, knowing at once what to
expect from this snippy little shave-tail. He fulfilled my expectations
at once. “Get rid of him, and immediately. You know as well as I,
Canwick, that no pets or mascots are to be taken aboard. This is no old
ladies’ home.” And he strode pompously down the line.
After he had disappeared and we settled down for another quarter hour
wait, a big homely man across the aisle spoke up in a voice that carried
to all corners of the shed. “Dat’s why dat bird don’t belong here—dis
ain’t no old ladies’ home.”
“You mean the dog?” I asked stupidly, fascinated by his booming voice
and his ugliness.
The big fellow grinned toothily. “Naw—dat Chilblaines, the God damn
little sawed-off piece of punk.”
Whew! What an earful! But I managed to laugh at his description of the
shrimp louie, and in a moment the big fellow and I became fast friends,
for he promptly offered his assistance in the matter of Esky’s disposal.
I gathered from his conversation that he not only liked dogs but that he
loathed the sight of this snoopy “Chilblaines” as he called him, and
that he would like nothing better than to slip one over on the aforesaid
Chilblaines.
“We’ll trim de little squirt!” he declared. “Say, buddy, ain’t you
workin’ fer de Gen?”
“General Backett,” I replied.
“Sure thing! Just the racket!” he exclaimed. “Nothin’ to it atall!” And
he proceeded to enlarge upon his brilliant idea. “I been waitin’ fer a
chance to get dat guy alone somewhere, and when I do, I’m gonna put his
knees in his face so fast they’ll have to blast to get ’em out!”
“Well—I wish you luck,” I told him, although I didn’t want to encourage
him too much because I figured this Chilblaines was just the sort of a
fellow who’d go out of his way to make life miserable for anyone he
suspected of being antagonistic to him. However, I hadn’t the least idea
as to what could be done with Esky and I did hate to leave him for
someone to ship home.
The big fellow, I later learned, knew some things that I didn’t, one
thing in particular: namely that, as clerical dog-robber to General
Backett, I could get away with a great many little sins of commission
and omission that no common soldier could dare contemplate with
impunity. This fellow had been in the army long enough to know the
necessity of humility on his part, and he therefore got that much more
pleasure from the idea of my slipping one over on his pet superior.
Indeed, he was all wrapped up in the idea of getting Esky through the
gangplank inspection and on board our transport.
“All we gotta do,” he repeated, “is get that pup into somethin’ ’at
looks official. The top-kicker’ll probably be the only man ’at can
suspect anything funny and he’s too damned scared of his job to say
anythin’ if you tell ’im it’s somethin’ of the Gen’s.”
“But what if someone should insist on investigating?” I objected,
hopeful but still in doubt as to the feasibility of the scheme.
“Aw hell, buddy!” he exclaimed impatiently. “Don’t you know there ain’t
no river so wide it can’t be crossed somehow or other? It’s a million to
one that we can walk right through without a hitch—why, there’s a whole
g—— damned army got to get on that boat and they ain’t gonna lose no
time over nobody.” His reasoning convinced himself but not me.
“And what happens after we’re on board? What if the dog gets loose? What
if we’re caught in an inspection on the ship?” I was convinced that it
was too risky. “I’d rather arrange to have someone here ship him home
to-morrow than take a chance on his being put out of the way in the
middle of the Atlantic Ocean.”
“Fergit it! Fergit it! Act yer age, buddy!” His booming voice was
certainly persuasive. He sounded as if the scheme were all worked out
and carried to successful conclusion. “Why, after we once get on that
old scow, we can’t get off, even if we want to. And nobody’s gonna say
anything anyway as long as we keep outa that dirty rotten little
stinker’s way.”
At this point he demonstrated that he was chewing tobacco. When he spit,
you expected the building to shake. It was really a fascinating sight: I
never had seen anything quite like it: he gave his face a twist, aimed
at a sawdust box about ten yards away, heaved a huge sigh and let fly in
a long arch that usually ended in the sawdust box. The feat fascinated
my sleepy mind so that I followed his argument in a sort of daze of
admiration.
“Why, buddy,” he continued, “there ain’t nothin’ to it atall! Not a
worry! Not a wrinkle! If we get caught, your Gen’ll fix it up—and
anyway, what can anyone do out in the middle of the ocean? If
Chilblaines threatened to throw de pup overboard, you know damn well the
Gen’d put a stop to that! So what’d they do? Huh? Turn round and come
back to let de dog off?... Why, buddy [Spit. Spit.] it’s a set-up!”
I was convinced, or rather I let him go ahead with his plans. He
procured a barracks bag and cut a little hole in the bottom of it. Then
we tried various ways of carrying Esky in it. The poor pup didn’t know
what it was all about but I patted his head and told him it was all
right, and the way he behaved proved to me that dogs have intelligence
just like human beings. First we put the dog in head first; then we
decided that he’d probably wriggle less if we put his head up so he
could see and smell me and thus know he was all right. We tried this and
I tried lifting it—it was no go. I couldn’t have lugged it any distance
at all.
“Let me have him,” ordered my co-conspirator. And he took the bag, put a
piece of board in it, stuck Esky in so his nose came at the drawstring,
and picked up the bundle to carry it under his arm instead of over his
shoulder as is the customary way of carrying a barracks bag. “You see,
buddy, you’ll be behind me and he can see ya and know it’s all right.
See?”
Just then the top-kicker’s whistle blew and I had to submit to the plan.
We started off, with the big fellow carrying Esky, besides all his own
kit. Thank God we didn’t have to walk far. We rode to the train in
trucks. Nobody molested us and Esky behaved admirably, aside from a
little stretching and wiggling which ceased as soon as I began to pet
him.
When we boarded the ship in the morning, the big boy stepped lively up
the gangplank with a smirking laugh, all prepared for Lieutenant
Blaines, in case he happened to be around. But that gentleman was
nowhere in sight. The officers at the rail gave my overloaded comrade a
matter-of-fact glance, the top-kicker accepted his mumbled “some o’
General Backett’s stuff” and waved us past, and we followed the stream
of traffic to the hole wherein we were supposed to spend the next
fortnight or more.
The compartment assigned to our company proved to be too small by three
bunks and the top-kicker finally assigned the big fellow and another odd
number to join me in a little cubby-hole that used to be a paint shop
and was now a hole just big enough for three bunks. Here we rested.
I found that the big boy’s name was Ben Garlotz and that he used to be a
prizefighter, under the ring name of Big Ben Bailey. He certainly had
all the attributes of a rough, tough, genuine he-man. I liked him
immensely and so did Esky, who was doomed to spend the duration of the
trip under my bunk. The other bunkmate’s name was Maurice Getterlow, and
I believe he was some kind of a Semitic. We certainly made up a strange
trio of bed-fellows—and Esky made an even stranger fourth member of the
squad.
Dawn saw us in the lower harbor—and Private Canwick was en route to
France. God help Leon and preserve Aunt Elinor from hysterics! I hoped
they were both praying for me and that for once they might stand in with
Mr. John Q. Headman!