I was thinking a good deal. One poor chap we passed as he waited for the
hospital truck to come along and pick him up, a disappointed man of
fifty, who held his head down and would not look at us as we tramped by
in sympathetic silence. As we entered the residence quarter of
Plattsburg, where people lined the streets, the whistles blew Halt and we
were waved to the two sides of the street: "Fall out to the right and
left." We dropped down on the grass all around a rock where two pretty
girls had ensconced themselves to see us pass; instead, we saw them run!
Then on we went through the town, marching at attention, with everybody
out on the streets to watch the last of the rookies of 1916.
But when we reached the post there was evidently to be a March Past, for
the band was playing ahead of us, stationed opposite the general and his
staff. We braced ourselves up, swung into line--and there was the captain
in front of us! Very pale he was, with a bit of white bandage showing
under the hat that had the hole in it. But he was firm on his feet. What
a yell for a moment we let out! Then like veterans we followed him with
his old familiar stride, and if there was a break in all our line--no, I
can't believe it. We saluted the general, the lieutenant broke us into
column of squads, and then we gave Eyes Right to the captain, who stood
at salute as we marched by.
The break-up was a heart-rending affair. So much had we been delayed by
the unexpected skirmish and the little investigation that there was only
the smallest amount of time to turn in our equipment, get our baggage,
and catch the trains that would not wait. So in the scrabble were no real
good-bys, no friendly little chats about the past and future, no
appointments for reunions. I did not even shake hands with Bannister as
he hurried to the boat that for some reason was his means of getting
away. There were just two little events that I can describe to you.
As we marched into camp David was uneasy, and acknowledged frankly that
he was afraid his mother would be there to take him home in the motor.
But the familiar strawberry limousine was nowhere to be seen, and as we
swung into the company street we saw not David's mother, but his father
in his ancient Panama and his wrinkled business suit. The boy shouted his
delight, and when we broke ranks he dragged his father to the tent and
introduced him to as many of us as he could pin down for a moment. And a
little later, catching both Knudsen and me, he kept us in the tent while
he reminded his father of a promise. "You know, father, you said you'd
give me any kind of an automobile I wanted, if I stayed through the
hike."
Mr. Farnham had been deeply pleased, you could see it in his face, that
David had grown so manly. Consequently he was the more disappointed at
this prompt practical demand. But though a shade crossed his face, he
answered kindly, "You've earned it, David."
David put a hand on my arm, and on his other side drew Knudsen a little
closer to him, as if for support. "Then, father, I want a Ford!"
"A Ford?" cried his father. A Ford! thought I--a four hundred dollar car
when he might spend his thousands?
"Yes," said David, a little unsteadily. "I want to learn to take one
apart and put it together, and then I want you to send another Ford
ambulance to France, with me to drive it."
A glorious smile broke over the father's face, of pride, and fondness,
yet also of possible sacrifice of this son who was now first showing his
manhood--for there is danger in that ambulance service. I saw the story
was true that Mr. Farnham has been sending ambulances abroad; and saw
also that David had been afraid of his father's opposition to a scheme
which he had been hatching in secret. So he had felt the need of my
support and Knudsen's. But the father held out both hands to his boy, and
Knudsen and I slipped quietly out of the tent and walked together,
without saying a word, down to the edge of the drill-field.
Said Knudsen then: "Since it's settled now, that silly mother can't
interfere."
I was feeling pleased that though at first I had studiously neglected
David, he had needed me now. Knudsen's mind travelled much the same road.
"A good investment," he said, "the trouble we've put into that
youngster."
I had a little talk with Mr. Farnham before the train went. He was
overflowing with happiness. David had somehow got the idea of service,
and unknown to us had been planning his life by it. First to help in this
emergency in France, then to find some way in which a rich man could give
his time to his country, in some branch of public service. It was fixed
in his mind that next summer he must be at Plattsburg again, working for
a commission in the reserve. Beyond that he would need his father's
advice and help.
"So there's something more in life for me now," said the father, "than
the mere making of money."
It was in the midst of all the hurry and confusion of our getting ready
to go that I heard a great shouting at the head of the street, and going
to see, found the captain there, and Vera watching from a little
distance. He had come to take personal leave of those he knew best, shook
hands with every one, called scores of us by name, thanked us all for our
help in his work, showed in his face his great new happiness. When those
who pressed upon him first had gone away, driven by the necessity that
was on all of them, he called me to him and made me promise not to leave
with the rest, but at least to stay overnight--for we were to be brothers
now, he said, and must know each other better before we separated. While
a new group came and talked with him I went to Vera.
"Frances is waiting in the car outside," she said, scarcely glancing at
me, but with eager eyes watching the captain and the men who still
pressed upon him.
"Is he popular now?" I asked. "Do the men love him? Don't you approve of
him a little bit yourself?"
This roused her into giving me all her attention for a moment. "Oh,
Dick," she cried, remembering, "if it hadn't been for what you said to
him, perhaps--!" She couldn't quite express the tragedy that would have
followed.
"Perhaps it would have taken a little longer, that is all," I said.
"There, watch him, do." For in spite of herself her eyes would stray back
to him. "Frances will be nice to me." And Frances was, until I told her I
must go back to the boys.
There was a minute or two here and there that I could get from the busy
men. But mostly I helped them get away, cleaned their guns, handed in
their stuff, helped them pack, lugged their baggage with them to the
train. Knudsen and I and Clay had one last short walk together, up and
down the embankment beside the train, soberly vowing friendship for the
future. Then the conductor gave the signal, they climbed aboard, there
was a short half-minute of waving of good-bys, and I walked back alone
across the empty drill field.
I am sitting now upon my bag in the tent which has so often rung with our
laughter or buzzed with our talk. Here are the ridges and hollows made by
our feet, over in the corner are Clay's old shoes, and near me lie three
empty shells that David threw out of his pocket. Our equipment is all
turned in, the buzzards in our absence carried everything else away, and
this lonely silence is more than I can bear. In a few minutes I shall
close this last letter to you; then Frances will come in the car to take
me to a telegraph office, where I shall wire you that she and I are
starting home tomorrow with the Chapmans, and shall not be home for three
days more. As I shall hint at the reason, you will understand and will
forgive me this delay. I know, dear mother, that your heart always was
with Frances, after all.
And so good-by to Plattsburg!
DICK