The bullet that put me in the hospital for several weeks had struck
the fleshy part of my hip, glanced off from the bone, and had been
extracted from the side. While a clean wound, I had lost a good deal of
blood and this had weakened me.
Just after the doctors had diagnosed my case and had discouraged me,
Jot came in again to see me. I told him that I had hoped to stay in
the service long enough to win a commission, but that the doctors were
determined to have me tied up by my leg for several months; and that
the war might be over before I could get back to duty again.
“Don’t worry,” said Jot. “There will be enough fighting to last until
you get onto your legs again. I guess the saw bones have camouflaged
their description of your wound with their Latin, so that what is
really a mole hill of a wound is made to look like a mountain, and have
frightened you.”
“No,” I said “not frightened, but discouraged me.”
The chaplain’s wound was much more serious, though the doctors thought
he would be able to resume his duties again if his wound healed as
well as they expected. But they made so many qualifications that I
mistrusted they were in the fog about it themselves.
I was getting well fast; but was, as the surgeon said, “subconsciously
restless.” The truth was, I could have sat up if they had let me. But
they had me down! They were in command and there I was, like a healthy
pup tied by the leg, and only able to run to the end of his string and
yelp.
It was three weeks before I was allowed to sit up!
When the surgeon came to me I said, “Doctor, what is the matter with my
getting out in the sun and having a breath of good air? I feel as well
as I ever did.”
The doctor, with cat-like softness, gave me a number of alarm calls in
camouflaged language, which really meant, “Your quick recovery depends
on obeying our orders, and keeping quiet!”
All things have an end, however, and after a few weeks, that seemed
months to me, I was allowed to get out into pure air. The nurse and
doctor had not been so very bad, after all my growling. They had given
me good things to eat, though a little stingy with mutton chops and
beefsteaks; but I had plenty of good food.
Then I called on the chaplain, at his request. He was looking pale and
peaked but his courage was good. He was a fine fellow with a lot of
stuff in him besides common sense. He did not make me feel shame-faced
by “plastering it on” about my bringing him into our lines, nor make
any fuss over me at all, for he understood. It was just what he, or any
other decent man, would have done under similar circumstances.
Later the colonel sent his orderly to bring me to his office. He was
another sensible man!
I stood at attention and saluted.
“You are looking fine, Sergeant,” he said, “and I am glad to see you
looking so fit!”
“Yes, Colonel,” I answered, “a flesh wound should not keep a man tied
up long. I am ready for duty now.”
“Sit down,” he invited me; and just then Muddy rushed in and made a
fuss over me; he had been living with the colonel since I had been tied
up by my leg.
“I have good news for you, that I may as well tell you now,” he
continued.
“The French general has recommended you for the _Croix de Guerre_.”
“I’d be glad to get one,” I stammered “if they think that I really
deserve it, Colonel.”
“Oh, I think that’s all right,” he replied. “You did a good act and
saved a good man. The regiment couldn’t spare its chaplain.”
“Yes,” I said, “the chaplain is a brave, good man. I hope that doctor
he is under won’t starve him as he did me, the other time I was hurt.”
“I don’t think he will,” said the colonel, smiling as though amused at
something. Then, after a pause, he continued. “There is a possibility
that I may be given a higher command than this, and in that case I may
wish you to serve with me.”
“I shall be glad to serve you, Colonel, in any place I can fill,” I
answered, rising and saluting.
I felt pretty good. Had it not been undignified and my hip still
hurting a little I would have ran and jumped.
It was part of the system of our Expeditionary Force in France that,
every four months, soldiers were to be granted a few days’ leave and
though I had been in the service much longer than that time, I had not
yet asked for one.
The surgeon strongly recommended that I should take a permission, in
order to recuperate before going to duty again. Jot suggested that he
also get permission and go with me.
“Where shall we go?” I said. “I should like to go where I can get a
good swim.”
“Just the thing,” said Jot, “I have been recommended to go to a place
on the south coast--a watering place; they say it is fine.”
It was so arranged.
At this time our army in northern France were holding a sector in the
world’s great battle where our regiment, with other American and French
forces, faced the German army at the peak of a German salient. At some
points the American positions were maintained in the shell holes that
pitted the battle ground; and I felt guilty at leaving my comrades when
I felt myself fit for duty and there was fighting to be done.
I was ordered to report to the colonel and receive instructions.
I stood and saluted. He looked me over critically and said, “You will
do, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied, “I feel fit for duty, and it doesn’t seem right
for me to leave now.”
He again radiated one of his indefinable smiles, partly of amusement
and partly something else, and said, “A little lame yet, I see.”
Then, grasping me by the shoulder, he looked in my face and said, “The
decoration ceremonies are to be tomorrow, of course you know?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied, “I have just received the notice.”
“I am proud and glad, my friend!”
“Thank you, sir,” I said, my heart glowing with pride that he should
name me, a sergeant, _his friend_! I am not sure but that those words
gave me more pride and pleasure than the decoration I afterwards
received.
After receiving directions for my simple part in the ceremonies I
saluted and left with, I confess, grateful tears in my eyes.
It was a great day for me. American and French regiments were drawn
up in formation on a green field back from the river. Those to be
decorated formed a group of five, two American and three French
soldiers.
Our general, strong and tall and simple; the French general, soldier of
international fame, with a group of attending officers, were there.
A trumpet sounded and the great French soldier came forward. He pinned
the red ribbon of the Legion of Honor on the coat of a grizzled French
captain--and then kissed him first on one cheek and then the other!
Then came my turn: he made a little speech in French--which of course
I did not understand--and pinned the green and yellow ribbon of the
_Croix de Guerre_ upon my coat, and--shook hands! I felt relieved.
But I was proud of the honor and the handshake from so great a soldier,
and wished that my mother had lived to know about it. Perhaps she did;
who knows?
Before leaving for my trip I called at the hospital to see Chaplain
John and had a heart-to-heart talk, such as I sometimes had had with
mother. For though I have not said much of anything about it, in these
pages, she at times seemed nearest to me, and thoughts of her still
gave me pangs of sorrow mingled with deepest gratefulness and love for
all she had been and still was to me.
I had never given much thought to religious things, outside of the
talks I used to have with her. The talks which the parsons gave me were
usually more distressing than comforting. Boys will understand without
my saying more. But this brave fellow, not many years older than I,
with his common sense backed by his manly, self-sacrificing spirit, was
different.
When he asked me to pray with him I was a trifle disconcerted and
shamefaced, for mother had taught me to pray in secret--and I hadn’t
prayed much since I had been with the army. But when I rose from my
knees, I had a feeling that I had been blessed by his prayer, and that
a new and sweet spirit had entered into my life.