Some time before daylight Jeb fell asleep. In the work and hustle of
getting aboard and stowing supplies for his unit, of dodging a company
of Canadians looking to their own embarkation, and of steering his
course through half an army of sweating stevedores who were loading vast
quantities of freight for the Allied army, he had not thought of
himself. But he had felt the elation which comes to all who are
cohesively striving for a single purpose that lies beyond dangerous, and
as yet insurmountable, ground. He had responded to the _camaraderie_ of
these Canadian chaps, and it had been good. Now he slept.
The steamer that took his unit to France, and these few furloughed boys
from Canada back to their regiment, was not large as steamers go, but it
looked monstrous to Jeb. Had he been familiar with trans-Atlantic travel
he would have missed the library, main saloon, smoking and
writing-rooms, as these spaces which formerly belonged to the pleasure
traveler were now converted into bunks. Bunks were everywhere--empty
bunks for the most part on this trip, but ready for the great movement
later on. Perhaps the next time over she might bring the American boys!
When these lads from Canada, the doctors and the nurses (and the
stretcher bearers, of which Jeb was one, although he had not yet
discovered it) realized their transport was an old reconverted German
tub, they would have cheered an irony so delightful had not orders been
issued for complete silence. No one must know that this ship, secretly
restored from the ravages of her former crew, entertained the slightest
idea of sailing; not one of the swarm of spies in German pay, infesting
New York and its environs, must suspect this midnight-to-dawn
embarkation! So, while Jeb slept, tugs quietly warped her out, towed her
in ghostlike fashion toward the Bay and turned her free. By daylight she
was over the horizon.
And no one suspected that before daylight one of the sweating
stevedores, washed and smartly dressed, left his back-hall room in a
Hoboken boarding house, crossed to New York and entered a telephone
booth in a large hotel; thereupon calling an uptown number and telling a
keen-eyed man who listened gratefully that his wife was out of danger
and the doctor had left at two o'clock. Later that morning one of the
commercial messages which loaded the telegraph wires sped to a merchant
in Buenos Ayres asking quotations on 8,000 feet of 2-A grade mahogany
veneer; and, half an hour later, the Swedish Legation there was telling
Berlin that, upon this date, at 2 A. M., a steamer of 8,000 tons burden
had cleared New York, destination France.
When the bugles sounded reveille Jeb fell out with the others. This
taste of the military was decidedly acceptable to him. He regretted that
his unit did not fall in for mess, as the Canadian veterans, for
instance. He regretted keenly his ignorance of army matters, the manual,
even, and the habit that came with constant discipline of keeping
oneself smart, straight, clear-eyed and ever courteous--as a good
soldier is. There were several pretty nurses aboard--several who were
not!--and for once his classic features found worthy rivals in the less
handsome, though more perfectly conditioned, regulars.
Jeb had not realized as yet that he was stepping into an age where
Service counts above all other human assets; where the millionaire who
sits smugly in his club is contemptible beside the twenty-five dollar a
week man who puts his shoulder to the yoke. He had not seen this as yet,
nor could he have believed that henceforth, as never before, the real
men and real women of the world would be graded by the stamp of
_sterling service_, as distinguished from, and higher than, sterling
dollars. This great lesson he had yet to learn, as millions are learning
and will continue to learn.
There sometimes comes in the life of men an affinity for other men; when
two from afar will be drawn together as old acquaintances. This is more
usual when the sexes are crossed--at least, poets would have it so--but
in all reaches of human habitation there are moments when a man will see
another in a crowd and say to himself, "I'd like to meet that chap!"
Thus it was with Jeb and Sergeant Tim Doreen, one-time citizen of Galway
(the old sod), later American citizen, still later discharged with honor
from a Canadian regiment because of a grievous wound. But wounds meant
less to Tim than fighting and now, within six weeks, he was on his way
back. "Not as I wouldn't love to go wid me Stars an' Stripes, lad," he
carefully explained, "--for 'twould do me 'art good to slug the heathen
Boche from under its majistic folds--but ye'll be some time gittin'
ready over here, whilst the b'ys av me old rigiment is standin' at
attintion waitin' fer me this minute!"
He and Jeb possessed not one thing in common, yet each was endowed with
something the other would have given his all to own. Jeb's face, for
instance, was like a cameo, high-bred, delicate and intellectual; Tim's
was scarred by shrapnel--although it had never been much of a face to
start with! He had always wanted to be handsome, for he loved beauty
extravagantly, be it in man or woman. Jeb, moreover, was tall,
splendidly built, graceful; his hands were smooth, his fingers well
groomed, he carried himself with the air of a gentleman. Tim was short,
perhaps just within the army requirement; he was built like a pine knot,
was smartly soldierly but lacked every other grace; his hands were what
hands should be that had not shirked in the trenches. He could not have
passed for a gentleman--or for what is the usually accepted term for
that individual--with all the arts of Poole and the rest of Piccadilly
thrown in; and Tim's highest ambition would have been to walk some
evening into the Ritz-Carlton, Sheppards, Continental, or Plaza, "wid
clothes enough an' manners enough to make them as eats there break their
sweet necks wid lookin', an' strain their soft eyes wid admirin' av me!"
Jeb could have done it, for he drew just such looks in places given over
to social frivolities; so Tim liked Jeb, because Tim was generous and
knew only a manly man's psychology. Little did he dream which of the two
would attract the smiles of admiration, the tears of adulation, in the
great field of human service! Just one thing he did possess, however,
which Jeb would have given his world for, and that was courage. If ever
man bore the mark of courage, 'twas Tim Doreen! Perhaps the widest
breach between them might have been thus summed up: Jeb was well aware
that Jeb was handsome; Tim had never given a thought to the fact that
Tim was in the highest sense courageous.
The duties of a sergeant are not all hammocks and cigarettes. He
occupies an anomalous position of go-between for his captain and the
men; he must swear here, praise there, appear to be hurt at other times.
He must never miss anything, from a grumble beneath the breath to a
blistered heel or a bad tooth. He must lay alongside the men, in a
figurative sense, and get to know their souls; and get them to love him
or to hate him--but never to think of him with indifference. If his
captain is wise, he will listen to him patiently and follow his advice;
for a good sergeant maketh a happy company, just as truly as a good
housewife maketh a contented home.
There were few duties aboard ship. The Canadians were already veterans,
and their new captain who was taking them back allowed more loafing than
usual. He believed in a generous breathing space before the sterner
days to come--providing they kept themselves fit! Neither did Barrow
care much how his unit employed its time, if all hands attended his
lectures and first aid demonstrations; and so it came about that Tim and
Jeb sat many hours together. It also followed that Tim saw in his new
friend elements which puzzled him, for now, the sixth day out, he
turned, saying quietly:
"Lad, ye've been talkin' a lot about this Medical Corps job av yours,
an' the risk ye're takin'; an' whin ye're not talkin', ye're wonderin'
how soon we'll be blowed up be a submarine! W'ot ails ye now? W'ot's
bitin' ye?"
The irresistible caress of the Celtic tongue was in Tim's question, and
Jeb, hesitating but a moment, impulsively leaned toward him.
"Tim," he said, "I don't want you to think less of me, but the idea of
being sunk out here in mid ocean, or being shot up in a battle, scares
me stiff. I guess I'm a--a----"
"Don't say it," the other checked him. "Don't be callin' yeself w'ot
ye'd be knockin' the head off anither mon for sayin! I've suspected ye
had a strong leanin' thot way, Jeb, but hadn't thought no less av ye,
as I've seen manny a lad change from bad to good in the jumpin' av a
cartridge clip."
"But the worst of it is, Tim, that I came away to escape the draft; and
now I see the draft was a cinch to what I've got into."
"It _is_ not!" Tim vigorously replied. "I'd sooner have yer job twinty
times! To begin wid, ye only had wan chanct in eight to be taken in the
draft, but wid the doctors ye're _shure_ to see scrappin'! Thot's the
way to look at it, lad!"
"Oh, I know!--but I can't," Jeb muttered, despairingly. "Since Barrow
told me I had to lug a stretcher I haven't eaten a meal a day, Tim. It
isn't sea-sickness, either, for the ocean's like a mill pond; it's just
knowing the Medical mortality is heavier than any branch of the
service--heavier'n air fighting, even!"
"Thot's right," Tim said thoughtfully. "Medical comes
first--fifty-fifty, mind ye; thin the infantry, an' thin the air--or
maybe 'tis the artillery; I forget now. But, anyway, thot's w'ot makes
it worth a domn, can't ye see, lad? I own thot it don't strike me
funny-bone, though. Whin I stand up for to be shot at, I want to do
some shootin' meself; I don't want to have me hands glued to no
stretcher, an' me heart bleedin' for the poor divil on it, an' let a lot
of 'arf-fed outcasts plug me lights out! No, sor! Whin anny lunatic av a
Hun pulls his trigger at Tim Doreen it arouses me timper, an' I'd be apt
to drop me load an' go back an' take a swat at 'im; thin, like as not,
the doctors 'd have me court-martialled!"
"If you hadn't got blown up first," Jeb bitterly replied.
"Now, don't ye go thinkin' 'bout bein' blowed up! 'Tis the worst kind av
weed a soldier can smoke!--an' I'm sayin' 'tis been the trouble wid ye,
Jeb; ye think too much! Transfer thim thoughts to how quick ye're goin'
to blow up the inimies av yer country; thin yell wanst or twict like the
ould divil hisself, an' ye'll be itchin' for a scrap so's ye can't
sleep! Quit thinkin' thot rot 'bout bein' kilt--which ye can't control
in anny case; an' begin thinkin' how ye'll kill a Hun--which ye _can_
control! Thot's the creed, as good soldiers sees it!"
"But hell, Tim," he said, with something like a whine, "I can't
possibly shut out the dangers! They loom up like mountains."
"Hell yer _own_ self," the sergeant turned on him. "Dangers as looks
mountain high ain't no more'n a hill o' beans whin ye git ye're belly on
'em! W'y, look!--me ould fayther, wanst, waked me in the night sayin' as
a gang o' burglars was downstairs lootin' the family silver. Well, lad,
bein' but half awake I believed 'im, an' the goose flesh growed out on
me ar-rms so that--'tis the truth I'm tellin' ye--I plucked enough for a
parlor duster! But whin I got downstairs investigatin', the gang was no
more'n a loose shutter flappin' in the wind. The burglars was just a
noise--d'ye git me? No danger, but a noise--an' w'ot's a noise? Ye see,
Jeb, 'twas the wrong kind of thinkin'; an' the wrong kind of thinkin'
breeds fear, an' fear shrinks up a man whilst it makes the inimy grow
six inches. Put them six inches on yeself, say I, an' let the Boche
shrink--which he'll do, too, whin he sees ye've the bigger courage!"
It did not occur to Jeb that this man was doing his very utmost to
inspire one spark of the lacking courage; he did not realize that Tim
was thoughtfully picking his words, as carefully as though he were
telling stories to a little child. Tim would not have been the crack
sergeant that he was had Jeb suspected this!
"I can see them shrinking now," Jeb said, with something like a sneer at
Tim's assurance. "Why, everybody says they're the finest fighters on
earth!"
"Thin iverybody lies, an' 'tis Tim Doreen as says it! There ye go again
wid a lot of domn fool thinkin' of w'ot ye got no cause to think. Wasn't
I just after tellin' ye there ain't no worse dry-rot for a soldier? The
Boche can put up as good a scrap as most, lad, whin they're bunched in a
crowd, but take 'em mon for mon an' they ain't no fighters a-tall,
a-tall. I ain't denyin' their officers is hep to the game--but thot's
just w'ot proves me p'int: for do ye s'pose their fat-headed gineral
staff'd be silly enough to march ar-rmy after ar-rmy jam up aginst our
strong positions, bunched like a herd o' sheep, if they didn't know the
men was too spineless to go into the fray like us, or the British, or
the Frinch--which is to say, in open order an' like hell?"
"I don't see how that'll get us anywhere," Jeb remarked.
"'Twill get us _iverywhere_," Tim replied emphatically. "Didn't it get
us as far as we've got, whin we were at our wur-rst, an' thim at their
best? An' they was shure a rattlin' ar-rmy thot first year, make no
mistake on thot, lad! There was fine steel in 'em, mind ye: the 2nd
Bavarian Corps, now, which did me heart good to fight wid!--cruel,
unprincipled outcasts, to be shure, an' wid no mercy nor respect for
women--still, they was good fighters! But of late the b'ys tells me
their whole ar-rmy's been so watered down wid inferior stuff thot ye'd
not know it for the same; an' lest they're touchin' elbows an' absorbin'
courage w'ot comes from bein' clost, they ain't w'ot ye'd call reliable,
anny more. They can't stand the gaff as they wanst could! W'y, I was in
at the takin' av wan av their artillery positions on the Somme, lad, an'
may I be shot for a spy if we didn't find gunners chained to the wheels!
Ye don't need no searchlight to find the answer av thot, do ye now?
Their fightin' _machine_ is good, mind ye; but it ain't no more nor
less'n a red sausage machine whin iverythin's considered! But as for
the individual fightin' mon, w'y, he don't grow over there, a-tall,
a-tall!"
"That's all very well, Tim, but they kill a lot of our fellows, just the
same!"
"Shure, ivery now an' thin wan av the b'ys is sent west; but ye wouldn't
have a war all wan-sided, would ye? 'Twould be no war if ye did."
"It's all so horrible," Jeb shuddered. The mention of being "sent west"
did not appeal to him since he had learned that it was the Tommy's way
of saying that a man had been killed.
"Now, thot's where ye're wrong, lad," Tim straightened up to reach in
his breeches pockets for "the makings," but his hand came out empty and
he continued: "There's plenty av fun goin' on, an' laughs, too. I mind
me wan day whin the '75's was barkin' their throats out an' bein'
answered by God knows w'ot mighty ingines av war. We'd been brought up
clost an' was lookin' for a rush anny minute, so the men was jokin' for
the most part--thot or cussin'; 'tis all the same whin a rigiment feels
good! I was sint along to help the bombers adjust detonators an'
straighten out pins, whin I come on a little cockney lad--timid like
yeself, Jeb--holdin' a puddin' an' not knowin' w'ot to do wid it; so I
says to 'im:
"'Whin they git clost, now, pull out thot pin, count four, an' let her
fly!'
"''Ow let 'er fly?' he asks.
"'W'y, chuck 'er, ye blighter!' says I.
"'But 'ow farst must Hi count four?' he asks agin, lookin' worrit;
's'pose she goes hoff in me 'and?' he says.
"'Well,' says I, 'if she goes hoff in ye 'and, sonny, ye may stop
countin'.'
"An', Jeb," the sergeant added, "he laughed so 'twas all he could do to
keep from droppin' it; but he got the hang, so help me, an' did a man's
work thot day!"
"Oh, I couldn't do anything like that," Jeb cried despairingly. "I just
couldn't! The whole idea is horrible! And look at their submarines, all
around us everywhere!"
"Well, _look_ at 'em! Where the divil d'ye see 'em! Has anny wan av 'em
been comin' aboard for a nip av grog? There ye go thinkin' wrong again,
Jeb; ye make me lose me timper! Haven't we been sailin' right along in a
sea as smooth as a lass's cheek, now comin' sivin days? W'y, me b'y,
even this ould tub's too fast for 'em!" Tim yawned and rolled over on
the deck, where they had been sitting with their backs against a
partition wall that, in former days of German ownership, had inclosed
the "gesellschafthalle." He searched again through his pockets, and
yawned once more, saying: "Shure, an' 'tis a long time gittin' back wid
the b'ys! But don't ye worry over w'ot's ahead--wait till it comes clost
enough for ye to grab it. Most ivery trouble, lad, dies 'asy whin ye git
yer teeth in good, an' shake it wanst or twict! Give me a bit av the
makin's, Jeb; I left me own below!"
Jeb passed over his pouch and papers, then watched the sergeant roll a
cigarette, light it, and give the match an outward flip. Taking a few
deep inhalations he eyed Jeb back, and said thoughtfully:
"Lad, I don't want ye to take this wrong, but I've a mind to be askin'
if ye have less courage than a gir-rl--a _lady_ gir-rl, w'ot's been
raised in silver an' gold an' soft pilleys! I want ye to keep thot in
mind whilst I tell ye a story; 'tis a story av me own wound, whin I got
me 'packet' for Blighty--an' av a nurse w'ot had jist come out from the
States, an' av a Frinch doctor w'ot's the king av all men, so help me!
'Twas 'im as brought me in off No Man's Land, where I was bleedin' me
life away! He come right out through a rain av fire thot would have
curled yer hair into little kinks av wire--for his stretcher bearers had
been sore shot up thot day, an' he was doin' ivery kind av wur-rk at
wanst. But, to git along: Whin I opened me eyes in the dressin' station
dug-out I scarce knowed if I was alive or dead--so weak did I feel. He
was standin' near, shakin' his head at a purty nurse, an' sayin': 'We
got to lose 'im, for he's lost too much blood! If we had anny to
transfuse,' he says, 'we'd pull 'im through, but thot's impossible,' he
says, 'for me b'ys have bled too much a-ready,' he says."
Tim took another inhalation, and slowly continued:
"I was too weak to say me prayers--not thot I wasn't in need av thim!
The nurse was lookin' up at 'im wid big, wonderin' eyes, an' her breast
was heavin'. 'Will thot save 'im?' she asks. ''Tis the only thing,' he
answers, sorrowful. 'Thin save 'im,' she says, rollin' up her sleeve;
'here's the blood--save 'im, quick!'
"Well, Jeb," Tim sighed, "I never see sich a look as come into thot
doctor's face. He stared at her, thin shouted so's ye could a-heerd 'im
a mile: 'I won't do it!' But still she stands her ground, an' says in a
flash: 'Ye will, if ye do yer dooty!' 'But I need ye', he cries again;
'I can't spare ye!' But she gives it to 'im strong, lad, an' says: 'A
fightin' man is worth more'n a nurse jist now! Hurry, Doctor
Bonsecours!'--for thot's his name, Jeb. 'But I need ye anither way, me
darlin',' he pleads wid her--an' I hope to be shot for a spy if iver I
see a holier look in a mon's face! She weakened a bit, an' her cheeks
got r-rosy red, but she says up to him, brave as iver: 'Save this mon
first, for all av France needs him!' Mind ye, lad, her sayin' thot all
av France needed a beggar like me!--but 'twas because he hisself was
Frinch, no doubt!"
Tim wiped his sleeve across his eyes. He made no pretense at hiding the
tears that sprang to them, for they were tokens of a deep and lasting
gratitude, and he was not ashamed.
"An' so they did it, right there, lad, for a little runt av an Irishman;
an' the last thing I heerd her sayin', as she breathed in thot stuff--I
can't for the life av me remember its name--was: 'Plase be shure to take
enough, Doctor!'"
Tim did not mention how he had joined what little voice he possessed
with that of Bonsecours, pleading with her to make no such sacrifice;
and then, finding this useless, threatening to kill the great surgeon if
he so much as scratched her arm.
"Thot's the way people fight an' live out there, lad. Mind ye, the
blessed nurse hadn't known 'im more'n a week--maybe less; but it don't
take long for men or women to see the kind av stuff as is in each ither,
whin they're totterin' on the edge av No Man's Land! Annyway, I don't
know as she iver give 'im the answer he wanted; but w'ot's more to the
p'int av me story is this; thot she's nothin' but a blessed gir-rl, from
a little town back home, mind ye, but I'd have ye know thot the gr-reat
wur-rk Doctor Bonsecours has done is the talk av the Frinch ar-rmy--an'
she's his right-hand liftenant. She's as tender as tears, lad, but as
brave as a lion--an' in about the same job as yeself. She don't mind the
shells a-tall, a-tall! D'ye git that, Jeb?"
"What town did she come from?" Jeb asked, his eyes growing thoughtful.
"Sure, an' I can't think av it!"
"Was it----" He stopped abruptly, as a strange and curious sensation
seized him. It seemed as though the deck suddenly heaved upward--very
much like the feeling he would have if, sitting in a hammock, someone
sat down beside him. Immediately following this came a terrific
explosion, numbing in its intensity, and a wall of maddened water leaped
past the rail for a hundred feet into the air. In a twinkling Tim
dragged him through the door, as a shower of debris came down upon the
place where they had been sitting. The huge smoke funnel crashed to the
deck, scattering soot in all directions, then balanced an instant, and
plunged into the sea.
In the midst of this confusion, even before the funnel disappeared, Tim
was bellowing a command. His captain, at his side, waited as the men
poured up to them, then said drily:
"Belts on the nurses; see that everyone's on deck, and belt yourselves!"
Life belts were everywhere within easy reach and, as the men scattered,
Tim stopped an instant to hand one of them to his captain, who smilingly
took it but was later seen tying it on Dr. Barrow.
The sergeant then dashed below, hurrying toward the staterooms to be
sure that everyone got up to deck. In his reckless determination to make
Jeb see this duty through, he had not let go of his sleeve.
"Take the doors on thot side," he now yelled at him in a voice of
thunder, "an' I'll take this! Smash 'em down where they're jammed, an'
look clost iverywhere inside! Sometimes women faints!"
With this he released his hold; but Jeb, trying to go on, could not--he
could only cross his arms against the panels and press his head there to
shut out the terror. When Tim, kicking in a door three staterooms away,
saw this he made one spring back and landed his next kick on a spot that
made Jeb flinch. This was followed by another, and still another, while
a string of lurid oaths poured from his lips which burned like a lash of
fire. Jeb sprang around, one fist drawn back to kill, his eyes
glittering as points of iron; but the sergeant's eyes were as points of
steel. The next moment Jeb had started on the work of rescue. Tim worked
across from him--and smiled.
When Tim had become satisfied that no one remained below, they began
their retreat. By now the ship was listing to a degree which made it
necessary for them to walk with one foot on the panelled wall, and to
jump the cross halls. The stairs upward they negotiated with one foot on
the balusters. At the landing above a number of life belts, having slid
along the floor, lay piled in confusion against the wall; and before
stepping out on deck Tim tied one of these on Jeb, then safeguarded
himself, saying briefly:
"Stay clost to me!"
They found moving more difficult now, as the ship had not stopped
listing. The deck leaned so precipitously that they had to grasp the
hand-rail, and work themselves by this means slowly around to the upper
side. Tim moved with the coolness of a veteran. Jeb scrambled with the
energy of despair.
There were plenty of boats at this upper rail, but to let them over was
a difficult problem, since they must scrape down the ship's hull and
risk being capsized or smashed. Those at the lower rail were entirely
out of commission--splintered by the torpedo.
Tim saluted the captain--the ship's captain, this time--and barked his
report. He was ordered to boat No. 1. When he reached this position Jeb
was close behind, terror still pictured on his face. In a fury the
sergeant turned to him, crying:
"Look at the courage av thim nurses, ye ---- ---- ----! Can't ye try to
be a man? 'Ere, give a hand!" Another string of profanity rolling from
his tongue was as potent as the kick had been, for Jeb, still gasping,
fell to work.
And then a cry went up! It came from the breasts of those who waited
with limitless courage, and those who worked feverishly to save. It was
the heartrending, bloodcurdling cry of people doomed--for the ship had
begun to settle! Through his megaphone the captain yelled:
"Jump! Jump! For the love of God, jump!"