BAD BLOOD COMES TO THE SURFACE
Later in the evening the surgeon came around. After examining
Sergeant Mock's feet for twenty minutes, and testing the skin as
well, he pronounced Mock a shammer.
Mock was sent to the guard-house for twenty-four hours. The next
morning an order was published reducing the sergeant to the rank
of private. Yet, on the whole, the ex-sergeant looked pleased in
a sullen, disagreeable sort of way. He had listened to the stranger.
Greg, however, had other troubles on his hands. After the noon
meal that day, as he was on his way to his quarters upstairs Captain
Cartwright passed him in the corridor.
"I hear you're turning martinet," said Cartwright, with a disagreeable
smile.
"Very likely," smiled Holmes, "but what are the specifications?"
"I heard that you had a sergeant busted for having an opinion of
his own."
"That's not so," Greg declared promptly.
"Do you mean to tell me I'm a liar?" Cartwright asked flushing.
"Did I understand you to charge me with preferring unjustifiable
charges against a sergeant in my company?"
"I said I heard you had busted a sergeant for doing his own thinking,"
the other captain insisted.
"Cartwright, it's difficult for me to guess at what you're driving,"
Holmes went on, patiently, "but I've already told you that I did
nothing of the kind that you allege."
"That's calling me a liar again!" flamed Cartwright.
"I'm sorry if it is," returned Greg coolly, and turned toward
his door.
"You cannot call me a liar!" cried Captain Cartwright, taking
a quick step forward, his fists clenched.
"Apparently I don't have to," scoffed Holmes. "You're eager to
claim the title for yourself."
Up flew the other captain's fist. But just then a door opened
behind him, and Dick Prescott caught the uplifted fist in tight,
vise-like hold.
"Don't do that, Cartwright," he advised.
"Let me alone," insisted the other striving though failing to
release his captured wrist.
"Don't do anything rash, Cartwright. Listen to good sense; then
I am going to let go of your wrist. If you were to strike Holmes
he would be practically bound to thrash you, or else to prefer
charges. In either case the matter would get before a court-martial.
My testimony, from what I overheard, would have to sustain Holmes."
"You two would swear for each other anywhere and at all times,"
sneered Captain Cartwright.
This was hinting that Dick Prescott would be willing to perjure
himself, and Dick flushed, though with difficulty he kept his
patience.
"I'm going to let go of you now, Cartwright," Prescott continued.
As Dick let go of the captured wrist Captain Cartwright wheeled
and aimed a vicious blow at his brother officer's face.
But Prescott's arm thrust up his adversary's.
"Stop it, Cartwright!"
Apparently the other could not control his anger. He aimed another
savage blow. Dick parried with a thrust, but this time his other
fist landed on Cartwright's chest with force enough to send him
staggering to a fall on the floor.
At this moment a step was heard on the stairway.
"Gentlemen! Stop this! What does it mean?"
The voice was full of authority and outraged dignity. Colonel
Cleaves, his eyes flashing, stood before them.
"Get up, Captain Cartwright," he commanded. "I must have an instant
explanation of this scene. Officers and gentlemen cannot conduct
themselves like rowdies."
Captain Cartwright forced himself to smile as he saluted; he even
tried to look forgiving.
"A little frolic, sir," he made haste to say, "that developed
into bad blood for the moment." I do not wish to prefer any charges."
"Do you, Captain Prescott?" demanded the colonel.
"No, sir."
"You, Captain Holmes?"
"No, sir."
If any of the trio had hoped this much explanation would prove
satisfactory to the E.O. of the Ninety-ninth, that one had reckoned
without his host.
"A misunderstanding that develops to the point of a knock-down
blow is never a trifling matter," declared Colonel Cleaves. "If
you gentlemen had assured me that it was all frolic then I would
have thought no more of it. But I have been assured that there
was a misunderstand---a quarrel that proceeded to blows. And
I myself saw one man down and signs of very evident anger on all
your faces. Gentlemen, do you wish to offer me any further explanation
at this moment?"
"I have said all that I really can say, sir," protested Cartwright,
"except that I do not harbor any unkind feelings for what has
taken place."
Steps were heard on the stairs, and other officers of the Ninety-ninth
came upon the scene.
"As no charges have been preferred," said Colonel Cleaves, "I
will not order any of you relieved from duty. I will notify all
three of you, however, at a later hour, and will then hear you
all in my office. I trust a most satisfactory explanation all
around will be forthcoming."
Colonel Cleaves then turned to the group of officers that had
just arrived, saying:
"Lieutenant Terry, you were kind enough to offer to loan me a
book on rifle range construction. I am aware that you have not
yet had a chance to send it over to me, but as I was passing,
I decided to drop in and ask it from you."
"In an instant, sir," replied Noll Terry. Saluting, he darted
down the corridor, opened his door and came back with the volume.
"I am indebted to you, Mr. Terry," said Colonel Cleaves, returning
the first lieutenant's second salute and turning to go.
Until they had heard the colonel go out upon the steps below the
entire group of younger officers stood as though spell-bound.
But at last one of them broke out with:
"I hope nothing really nasty is afoot. Three of you look as though
the moon were clouded with mischief for some one."
"You'll pardon us, won't you?" smiled Dick pleasantly, as he turned
to go back into his quarters. "You will realize, as we do, that
the first discussion of the matter should take place before the
commanding officer."
Greg followed his chum in.
"Oh it's nothing," they heard Captain Cartwright assure the others.
"It ought to blow over, and I hope it will. A certain officer
took what I thought too much liberty with me, and when I resented
it his friend took a hand in the matter. I hope we can set it
all straight before Colonel Cleaves."
Behind the closed door, hearing what was said, Prescott turned
on his friend with eyebrows significantly raised. Greg nodded.
No word was spoken.
Apparently Captain Cartwright also went to his quarters, for the
steps of many sounded outside, and then all was still.
Prescott had picked up a book and was reading. Greg walked over
to the window and stood looking out into the sun-baked company
street.
"I must go over to company office for an hour or so," announced
Captain Dick, glancing at his wrist watch and laying down his
book at last. "After that I'll go out and see how the platoon
commanders are getting along with their new work. I hear that
we're to have some drafts of new men to-morrow."
"Yes," Greg nodded. "Recruits from Chicago, and also from Boston.
Some day we may hope to have our companies filled up to full
strength."
"Small chance to get over to France until our companies are filled,"
Prescott smiled, as he stood up, looked himself over and started
for the door.
Captain Greg Holmes followed at his heels. No word was spoken
of the recent trouble with Cartwright, not even when they crossed
the road below and started for their respective company offices.
Paper work engrossed Prescott's attention for an hour or so.
During this time he occasionally glanced up to note what was taking
place beyond the window in front of his desk. His four second
lieutenants were in command of the platoons to-day, instead of
sergeants. The young officers were instructing their men in the
first essentials of bayonet combat.
The last piece of paper disposed of, Prescott at last arose, stretched
slightly, then strode out of the office to the drill ground.
He was just in time to hear one of his lieutenants explaining to
a line of men:
"When pursuing a retreating enemy one of the most effective thrusts
with the bayonet can be delivered right here. Learn to mark the
spot well."
Half-turning, the lieutenant pointed to the spot in the small
of his own back, before he went on, impressively:
"A bayonet thrust there will drive the blade through a kidney.
I will admit that that doesn't sound like sportsman-like fighting,
but unfortunately we're not to be employed against a really civilized
enemy in this war. Page, you will stand out. It isn't a popular
role to which I am going to assign you, but you will run slowly
past me and represent a fleeing enemy. Dobson, you will take
a blob-stick and chase Page, running just fast enough to overtake
him in front of me. Then you will give him the kidney thrust,
taking care to make your aim exact. Thrust with spirit, but do
not hit hard, even with the blob-stick, for Page is not a real
German."
Though the men were perspiring uncomfortably, their officer's
pleasant conversational way and his interesting talk kept the
interest of these young soldiers. Private Page stepped out and
took post where the lieutenant indicated, prepared to begin running
away at the word of command. Private Dobson picked up a blob-stick,
a long, wand-like affair intended to represent a rifle and bayonet,
the bayonet's point being represented by a padded ball such as
is seen on a bass drummer's stick.
"Go ahead, Page," commanded the lieutenant. "Kill him, Dobson!
. . . Good work! Any enemy, struck like that in earnest, could
safely be left to himself. Dobson, you be the fleeing enemy this
time. Aldrich, take the blob-stick."
One after another the men of the skeletonized platoon took their
try with the blob-stick. As is usual in the run of human affairs,
some of the men made the thrust excellently, others indifferently,
and some missed altogether.
"Rest," ordered the lieutenant, presently, and the men stood at
ease in the platoon line.
"Some of you men do not get hold of this bayonet work as well
as I could wish," Dick spoke up, all eyes turned on him. "The
man who learns his bayonet work thoroughly has a reasonably good
chance of coming back from Europe alive. The man who learns it
indifferently has very little chance of seeing his native land
at the close of the war. Remember that. Bayonet fighting is
one of the things no American soldier can afford to be dull about.
Lieutenant Morris, if you will pick up a blob-stick we can show
these men some of the value of swift work in the simpler thrusts
and parries."
Each armed with a blob-stick, captain and second lieutenant faced
each other. Dick, scowling as though facing an enemy whom he
hated, advanced upon his subordinate, making a swift, savage lunge
aimed at the other's abdomen. In a twinkling the thrust had been
parried by Lieutenant Morris, who, at close quarters, aimed a
vicious jab at his captain's wind-pipe. That, too, was blocked.
Warming up, the two officers fought without victory for a full
three-quarters of a minute. Then, at a word from Prescott, each
drew back.
"Every one of you men, by the time you reach France, should be
able to fight faster and better than that," Dick announced.
Down the line an infectious smile ran. It seemed to these soldiers
impossible that a more skillful or a swifter bit of combat work
could be put up than they had just witnessed.
"You two men, at the right, bring your rifles here," Prescott
ordered, and the bayoneted rifles were brought and handed to the
two officers.
"Now, Lieutenant Morris, the first four series, as fast as we
can go through them," Dick commanded.
Bang! bump! flash! Rifle barrels rang as they crossed; butts
bumped hard against barrel or stock, and glittering steel flashed
in the sunlight as the two infantry officers advanced and retreated
in a savage, realistic contest. It really seemed as though Lieutenant
Morris and Captain Prescott were bent on annihilating each other.
Could this fierce, mutual onslaught be pretense---play? Then,
as the last move of the fourth series was executed the two infantry
officers jumped back a step each and dipped the points of their
gleaming blades by way of courtesy. The other three platoons
of the company had stopped drill to watch. How the thrilled men
of A company wished to applaud and cheer!
"Lieutenant Morris and I are very poor hands at bayonet work,
compared with what we want you men to be when this regiment sails
for France," Prescott remarked, smilingly, as he handed back the
rifle to its owner.
From that platoon Prescott passed on to others in his company,
offering a remark here and a word of instruction there.
"You men must do everything to get your muscles up to concert
pitch," Captain Prescott announced. "No lady-like thrusts will
ever push a bayonet into a German's face. A ton of weight is
needed behind every bayonet thrust or jab!"
An orderly approached, saluting.
"Compliments of the commanding officer, sir, and he will see the
captain in his office at regimental headquarters, sir."
Returning the salute Dick walked off the drill ground as though
he had nothing on his mind. Down the street he espied Greg, also
going toward headquarters, and hurried after him. On the other
side of the street was Captain Cartwright, who soon crossed over
to join them.
In silence, the three captains made their way along the street
until they reached regimental headquarters. It was a low one-story
pine shed, with the colonel's office at one end, the adjutant's
office next to it, and beyond that the rooms occupied by the sergeant
major and his clerical force, and, last of all, the chaplain's
office.
None of the three captains was exactly at ease as they entered the
adjutant's office and reported.
"The commanding officer will see you at once," said the adjutant.
"Pass through into his office."
Colonel Cleaves, glancing up from his desk, gravely returned the
salutes of his three captains.
"Be good enough to close the door into the adjutant's office,
Captain Holmes," directed the K.O. "Now, gentlemen, I will hear
whatever explanation you have to offer of a very remarkable scene
that I came upon this noon."
All three waited, to see if one of the others wished to speak
first. After waiting a moment or two Colonel Cleaves asked:
"Captain Prescott, it was you who struck the knock-down blow,
was it not?"
"Yes, sir," Dick answered promptly, "though it followed a parry,
and was more of a thrust than a blow."
"You agree to that, Captain Cartwright?" quizzed the K.O.
"Essentially so, sir."
"There had been a quarrel, had there not?"
"I made a reply to a remark by Captain Cartwright, sir," Greg
supplied, "which, he felt justified in construing as offensive,
though I did not so intend it. I was annoyed at what I felt to
be an insinuation. Then Captain Prescott came out of his quarters,
sir, and caught Captain Cartwright's wrist. When Captain Prescott
released it, Captain Cartwright struck at him. The blow was parried,
and Captain Cartwright struck once more. That blow was also parried,
and Captain Cartwright went to the floor."
"Do you concur in that, Captain Cartwright?" asked the K.O.
"Yes, sir."
"By the way, Captain Prescott," went on Colonel Cleaves, handing
him a small piece of paper, "can you account for this?"
As Dick Prescott took the paper and glanced at it he felt himself
turning almost dizzy in bewilderment.