After our first call on the Boches, we enjoyed the rest and
recuperation of our billets.
“This cow barn,” said Corporal Sutherland, “seems like a good thing
after being in the trenches; don’t it?”
“An’ faith it does,” said Quinn; “but a fine tooth comb would improve
it.”
“Pat,” said Dean, facetiously, “is related to that countryman of his
who found fault because he was to be hanged.”
No sky is perfect without a few clouds; but we had an overshadowing one
because we did not get letters from home. There had been complaint ever
since the American Expeditionary Force first landed in France, that our
letters did not reach us as quickly as they should.
Some mail had just come in, however, and the boys were gladdened by the
news.
“Just got some letters from home,” said Corporal Sutherland, “and I
am mighty glad to get them, though they are so old they are like last
year’s birds’ nests.”
“What’s the matter with our mail service?” queried Shaw. “The poilus
get their letters regularly, I am told.”
“The poilus manage their mail better, because it is distributed by
women who are in sympathy with their boys; so their letters don’t have
to wait until they are cold and dead with old age,” said Sutherland.
“They reach them warm from the hearts of those who write them; and I
believe that is what gives the blue devils, as the Boches call them,
courage to fight so well.”
I was fortunate to get some letters from home and a box of goodies,
among which was some spruce gum and a quart can of maple sugar right
from the hills of Chester. You may infer that I enjoyed these good
things after so lately having come from the hospital!
The little French woman, in whose barn we were billeted, was the wife
of a French soldier. She had three children ranging in ages from three
to seven years. Our men petted the kiddies and shared their rations
with them.
I shared my goodies with the children much to their delight. I was very
fond of little four-year-old Marie, who was as pretty as a picture and
loved sweet things. One day I was having a great frolic with her. Her
face was smeared with chocolate and maple sugar, and a circle of dirt,
mingled with the sticky sweets, formed a halo around her pretty mouth.
She was in high glee over the possession of peppermints and a doughnut,
which was almost as hard as the chocolate.
I was dancing her in my arms, and she was piping like a little canary
in attempting to express her delight, when I encountered a French
soldier who, to my embarrassment, hugged me and kissed me on either
cheek. This is to the French the same as a hearty handshake with us.
“I am so glad,” he said in broken English, “to see you. The madame
has told me in her letters how good you Americans have all been to my
children and to her.”
He told me that he had lived in New York for a time before he was
married, and loved my country and its good people. He was on a short
leave of absence to see his family. He said he had been a little
jealous, when his wife had told him about the kindness of the Americans
who were billeted at his home.
One day while I was sitting on a bench by my quarters, holding the
little girl and talking to her father, a slim black-eyed young man came
up, and abruptly said, “Good morning, sirs!”
I looked distrustfully at him, for we had been warned against
English-speaking German spies, and then opened my eyes with
astonishment, for he looked as much like my friend, Jot, as one English
sparrow looks like another.
“Who are you?” I inquired. “What do you want?”
“I am on important business,” he responded politely, “for the army.”
“What do you mean by that?” I said. “Are you an American?”
“I was born in America,” he replied with indescribable dignity, “and
have lived there a good part of my life. But I was educated on this
side.”
Then I remembered what Jot had told me about his half-brother’s
resemblance to himself and I distrusted him all the more.
“Where’s your uniform?” I asked. “Why are you in citizen’s dress?”
For answer he pointed to a loosely hanging sleeve.
I turned my head to speak to my French friend, but found him gone; and
then, turning back again, found the man I had been talking to had also
vanished. I could not understand how he had disappeared so quickly, and
this added to my suspicion that he was not straight.
When I again saw the French soldier, Maurice, I said, “Where did
you go so quickly? You were standing near me and in an instant had
disappeared.”
He shrugged his shoulders and replied, “It would not be, as your people
say, ‘just the thing,’ to listen to your conversation with another
gentleman.”
Knowing something of a Frenchman’s idea of politeness that seemed to
explain his sudden leaving.
As soon as I got a chance from my duties, I started to see Jot. He
had been discharged from the hospital, I had learned, but I had not
seen him since he came back on duty. Passing the guard I stood before
Lieutenant Nickerson and saluted as stiffly as possible, and waited
until addressed by my superior officer. Jot returned the salute and,
coming up to me, put his hands on my shoulder, saying, “No formalities,
Davie, now that we are by ourselves. What is it that makes you look
so confoundedly troubled? Have the rations given out, or what is the
matter?”
Then I told him about the man who so much resembled him.
He stood for a moment as though meditating what to say, and then
replied, “It’s all right, David; I have seen him, too.”
“Is he your half-brother with whom you told me you could not agree?”
“We may not have been able to agree, but it does not follow that he is
not straight and a patriot, does it? We may be in agreement in a large
way, if not in little ones?”
I felt, knowing Jot’s habitual reserve, that it would be of no use to
question him further, and as he had not really told me anything, I was
much confused and uncertain what it all meant.
“Well, Lieutenant,” I said stiffly, “I feel it my duty to report these
facts to Colonel Burbank.”
“That’s not military,” he said. “You must report them first to your
captain, and he will report them to the colonel.”
“Oh, confound the red tape!” I said. “Can’t I report to the colonel in
some way, without passing it around the red-tape ring?”
“Yes,” responded Jot, somewhat to my surprise, “the colonel was saying
that he would like to see that watch of yours, that the Boche spoiled
and told me to send you to his quarters some time.”
Then he came to me once more, and, grasping my hand, with a look of
love on his high-bred face, said, “Do what your New England conscience
dictates and God be with you, Davie. I wish I could see more of you.
But whatever happens, remember that I am always your friend.”
Reaching Colonel Burbank’s quarters, I sent word by the orderly that I
was present to take his orders, if he wished to give any, and, also had
something important to communicate.
On reaching Colonel Burbank, I clicked my heels, saluted, and waited to
be addressed by my colonel.
“What is it, Sergeant Stark? What do you wish to communicate?”
“I took the liberty of coming here because I was told that you wished
to see me.”
“That will keep,” he replied and repeated his inquiry. Then I briefly
told him what I have here narrated.
To my surprise he said, “I have seen the man this morning. It was right
for you to report the matter, and I am glad that you did not report it
in the usual way. You will not mention to any one what you have heard
or know of this affair,” he commanded, “or it might do harm.”
Then he gravely said, as though to dismiss further talk about it, “I
have learned about your gallant conduct during the raid on the enemy
trench, and am pleased with you, and congratulate you.”
Just then Muddy rushed in like a miniature cyclone, circled around me,
barking, as much as to say, “I have found you!” and then jumped into
the colonel’s lap.
“He comes here once in a while,” explained the colonel, “and this is
the way he salutes.”
Then rising, he came to me and said: “I would like to see that watch.”
“It isn’t a watch any more,” I said; “it’s a ruin.”
And I took it out and handed it to him.
“So I see,” he said, examining an inscription on the inner case,
and then reading aloud, “‘Presented to Captain David Stark by his
comrades and admirers.’ Yes,” he added, musingly, “it is the same that
my father, with others, gave to him after the battle of Winchester,
during the Shenandoah Campaign under General Sheridan. Do you know that
Captain Stark saved my father’s life?”
Then he turned away as though to examine the inscription under better
light, but I saw a tear in his eye, and I was proud of my father.
As I turned to go, he added, “I have heard my father tell about making
the presentation of that watch, and am pleased to see it; I am sure he
will be glad as I am, that his friend’s son has proved himself worthy
to wear it, and that it has saved his life. Now as a favor to me--will
you allow me to have the watch repaired for you?”
I felt a lump rise in my throat. The eagle was asking a favor of me!
I did not get a chance, and did not much care to tell, how little I
really deserved all that my colonel said; and how scared I had been
before the fight. But I thought of a saying of mother’s: “How much
praise is often given to those who do not deserve it.” I determined,
however, to try to live up to the reputation that chance had given me.
Afterwards, telling Jot about the Colonel’s compliments, I said: “As
Bill Jenkins used to say, ‘I felt as mean as pussley.’”
“That’s just like you!” said Jot. “Don’t you remember about your
leaving some bunches of grass unmowed where there were bumblebees,
and getting Bill Jenkins to get into them by telling him that you had
left them as fancy spots? Bill said, ‘Confound your fancy spots!’ and
pitched into them, and got all stung up. And you lay awake that night
laughing and repenting by turns? The difference between you and some
other cowards is that you are mostly scared before a fight and they are
scared when in a fight.”
“What is the reason,” I said, “that I am so scared before a fight?”
“A vivid imagination,” replied Jot; “and borrowing troubles before they
come.”