Chapter II

They landed eventually and a code signal went back overseas at once, liberating several thousand post cards announcing their safe arrival. And a certain girl who lived near the port of debarkation and had been meeting the postman every morning for some time, got three of them. Two of them she put in her desk and the third one she put in the pocket of her sweater and carried with her. It is too soon to tell which one that was. But her mother found it and took it to her father—pretty well worn it was by that time—and he said: “The kiddie’s always off at some sort of a tangent. She’ll forget him in a week.”

“She isn’t eating.”

“Probably eating between meals,” he said callously. “Ice-cream sodas and that sort of stuff. Cut her allowance.”

But a morning or two later at breakfast he said over the morning paper: “Looks as though Charlie wouldn’t get any fighting after all. They’re breaking fast.”

Charlie was the general.

“Damned shame too,” he added.

“Father!” said a choked voice. “How can you? Wouldn’t you be glad if it was all over? And they’d all come home and—”

Here the girl lost her voice and left the table in a hurry.

“Humph!” said her father thoughtfully. “What was the name on that card?”

And on hearing it: “Better take her down to Aiken for a few weeks,” he said. “She’s got some sort of a bee in her bonnet.”

“She has,” said her mother grimly. “She can tell you herself. I won’t.”

But of course she did, almost immediately, and the cook in the kitchen heard a loud roaring from the dining room and slipped into the pantry to listen.

“Never!” said the roaring voice. “Never, with my consent. D’you think I’ve lost my mind? Send her here! I’ll tell her! I’ll settle this matter! This is one time when I shall assert myself in my own family.”

So they sent for the girl and she came and he asserted himself for fifteen minutes. At the end of which time he apologised. Then he argued for fifteen minutes, at the end of which he was perspiring and humble. At the end of an hour he was a cringing, pleading male, offering bribes of new cars and saddle horses; and was only met with something like this, delivered in a gentle patient tone:

“I only feel that it is my duty, father dear. Of course I cannot expect you to understand. It is the call of my country. I must accept. Some one person out of this family ought to do something.”

“Your brother is over there fighting.”

“Exactly,” she said in her patient way. “And millions of other people’s brothers to be looked after.”

“What d’you mean then—some ‘one’ person?” he persisted, sensing a gibe.

“From the three of us.”

“Look here,” he thundered, “aren’t we working? Haven’t I ruined my voice for the Liberty Loan?”

“Not noticeably,” she said coldly.

But everybody knows the rest of that conversation. It took place in about a million homes, and in a certain fixed percentage of instances it ended in a trip to Washington and certain tearful fittings of girlish uniforms. And in the end one blue-and-white or pink-and-white bedroom being closed off; and certain sheepish visits to its emptiness; and a renewed, terrified scanning of the daily papers for submarine sinkings. From which it will be seen that the girl did not go to Aiken. That is the story.

The curious thing about this story is that it is a war story without any war in it whatever. Of course the people at home did not know that. Sergeant Gray’s family, playing golf at Del Monte, always visualised him as a sort of storm centre for Hun strafing. They considered that German shells would seek him as orange juice seeks the eye. And Peggy’s people saw her wandering over battlefields at night, stooping ever and anon amid flying bullets to soothe the wounded, and perhaps being captured by the enemy.

But the real facts were rather different. Not that the girl wouldn’t have gone straight into the jaws of hell if she had had a chance, or that Sergeant Gray wouldn’t have done his fair share of the fighting and considerable more. They were both just out of luck, that’s all.

It was late summer when the division reached France and went into training in the general direction of the Front. It had been trained pretty fine already and was reported to G. H. Q. as being in first-class condition by a lot of inspectors-general—nicknamed the Pickwick Club by the general in confidence to the chief of staff.

The general had a compartment in the train going up, and he took the chief of staff in with him and put Sergeant Gray in an upper berth because it might be necessary to speak French during the night. He had been studying French himself, but the French didn’t seem to know their own language, and when he got excited he mixed considerable Filipino Spanish in it and it was rather like a salad.

Tommy had been missing when the arrangement was made, and sometime after midnight he turned up and in—on the floor of the compartment. He was sleeping there quite peacefully when a German shell struck him in the chest and a startled voice belonging to Sergeant Gray said: “Awfully sorry, sir. Just wanted to get a drink of water. Had no idea you were there.” He thought he had jumped on the general.

“Wuf!” coughed Tommy, holding his chest. “Wuf! Wuf! What the dickens do you mean—trying to murder me?”

Sergeant Gray listened. The general was wide awake by that time, but continued to snore.

“Why the devil don’t you sleep where you belong then?” whispered Sergeant Gray furiously. “I’ve sprained my ankle on you.”

The next snore the general gave sounded strangely like a snort.

Now I am perfectly aware that in our Army no commissioned officer swears at a noncom, and that if he ever did the noncom would of course not swear back. But it must constantly be remembered that the situation between Tommy and Sergeant Gray was extramilitary. It was man to man. It was Yale to Harvard and Harvard to Yale. And it was jealousy to jealousy.

Well, they got to their area finally and did the usual things, such as getting rid of the manure heaps in the street and learning to brush their teeth in the mornings while the astounded French populace looked on. Except the officers, they washed mostly in the street at the town pump and drill over, they bought chocolate sweetened with saccharin, and writing paper and _vin ordinaire_ at the little shops. They grew quite accustomed to cows breaking through their ranks when they were drawn up for the solemn ceremony of retreat; and to having these same cows wander at night into the stables where some of them were billeted and lie down with them to pleasant dreams. And they gave their monkey meat and tin willie to the French children and their extra underwear—finding how badly they needed it—and bought green cheese at the cheese shop, and had to report to the regimental doctor afterward.

But always, always, they waited for the order to move up to the Front. And it did not come.

The Headquarters Troop got very low in its mind. There they were, on their toes to get to work, and life consisted of trucking every blasted thing they needed six kilometres from a railhead, fighting the military police for diversion and as usual attempting to evade the early-morning shave by liberal applications of talcum powder to jaws and upper lips. They had been there about five weeks when William, arriving in the kitchen for breakfast after helping the general into his clothes, announced that the general was sick.

“Or if he ain’t he’s goin’ to be,” he asserted. “He was readin’ the morning mail and talkin’ to himself something awful. Then I give him the last of that there grapefruit we brought over, and all at once he give a yell and I ain’t seen him since.”

“Where’s the grapefruit?” inquired Sergeant Gray anxiously. As sergeant-orderly he was now a part of the household and ate in the kitchen. He didn’t mind that at all, but it gave him an uncomfortable sense sometimes of being warmer and better fed than the other fellows. It was awfully good for him, too, being an excellent offset to being a spoiled only son. Every now and then he helped the cooks pare the potatoes. But he sometimes wondered about his mother playing golf in California. He was afraid she might think she hadn’t raised her boy to be a potato parer.

“If you ate that grapefruit!” he threatened William.

“It’s there—unless the aide-de-camps’ve got it,” said William. “They’re like these here vacuum cleaners, them aide-de-camps. They—”

Sergeant Gray, who was of the age that is always hungry, tiptoed into the hall of the little French house and gazed into the dining room across. The grapefruit was there, and sitting behind it was Tommy, booted and spurred, with a new riding crop on the table and a fresh morning shave and a very feminine-looking letter in his hand. A hot wave of jealousy flashed over Sergeant Gray.

Tommy glanced up.

“Sergeant!”

“Yes, sir,” said Sergeant Gray with suspicious eyes on the letter.

“Bring me some powdered sugar.”

“Sir?” said Sergeant Gray.

“Powdered sugar,” repeated Tommy in a cold voice.

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“You heard me!” bawled Tommy. “Sugar! Powdered sugar!”

Now a sergeant-orderly has many duties. They consist frequently in doing anything that the proper person for the job may flunk. He may be put to anything from raking the general’s lawn to leading a platoon over the top in battle. But there is nothing in the regulations about powdered sugar.

“Yes, sir,” said Sergeant Gray, and retired to the kitchen. It was empty.

“Sugar,” muttered Sergeant Gray furiously. “I’ll see him in blazes first. Sugar!” He sat down.

“Sergeant!” came a very military voice from across the hall.

“Sugar! I’ll sugar him!” mumbled Sergeant Gray, glancing round the kitchen.

Almost thirty seconds later he stalked into the dining room and placed a bowl before Tommy, and Tommy—feeling the magnanimity of victory—observed that it was a nice morning.

“Yes, sir,” said Sergeant Gray, and retired, taking Tommy’s glass of water with him, ostensibly to refill it. Having done that he proceeded systematically to empty the water pails in the kitchen.

It was only an instant after that that he heard wild and choking speech from the dining room, and ran in. Tommy was on his feet making hideous grimaces.

“Water!” he yelled. “Quick! Get me some water! I’m poisoned! I’m—”

“Just discovered there isn’t any water, sir,” said Sergeant Gray. “I’ll run to the town pump for some, sir.”

Tommy, however, shot past him to the kitchen and was making a frenzied round of the water pails. Finding none, however, he poured some scalding coffee instead and but substituted one agony for another.

“Awfully sorry, sir,” said Sergeant Gray in the tone one uses to a sick child. “If I can do anything—”

Tommy steadied himself with an effort and confronted him.

“Gray, what did you bring me for sugar?”

“For sugar? Wasn’t it sugar, sir?”

“You know darned well it wasn’t sugar.”

“It was in a box,” protested Sergeant Gray in an aggrieved voice. “I’m no cook, sir, but it looked like sugar. If you didn’t notice the difference yourself, sir—”

Tommy looked at him speechlessly and went out. And Sergeant Gray’s smile was a mirthless one, for there was the edge of a pink envelope sticking out of the breast pocket of Tommy’s blouse.

It is most unfortunate to have to record that that day the general developed mumps. It was given out in the division as bronchitis, of course, and the general lay in a high French bed and roared orders to the chief of staff outside the door and threw a puttee at William when he suggested a hot lemonade. But part of the time he lay in the bed and nursed two grievances: First, that the Germans were breaking fast and unless they moved up soon they might as well not move at all. And second, that his family had had an attack of insanity and had allowed Peggy to come to France. He considered that girls were of two kinds: The ones to be taken care of and babied and have their railroad tickets bought for them and the automobile rug tucked in round them and a kiss for every birthday and one to grow on. And the others. The general’s niece belonged to the first kind.

She was in Paris.

“I’m going to come to see you before I really settle down to work,” she had written. “Lots of people here say I can’t do it; but I saw the nicest general yesterday and two colonels to-day. They all seem to be going in your direction soon and they all think you are a perfectly wonderful soldier and that if anything happens to General Pershing, which of course we mustn’t hope for—”

“Little minx!” said the general. “She’ll have the whole general staff eating out of her hand in a week!”

“And I’ll be in a pretty pickle if she comes here.”

However, the word pickle brought a terrible pain immediately in front of his ears and changed the trend of his thoughts.

The general had considerable time to think during the next few days. Mostly he thought about war and what wires he could pull to get to the Front. But he also thought about Peggy and Tommy and Sergeant Gray. He was a very wise man and he considered it unlikely that pure family affection was bringing the girl to visit him. Which was it then? Gray or Tommy? The general decided that it was Gray by a very easy method. He simply tried to think which one he would choose if he were a pretty girl and twenty, and he decided that it would be Gray.

Yes, the girl was only twenty. She had fibbed about her age a bit to get over; but, then, a good many others did. Only it was unfortunate that she had antedated her birth a number of years before her parents were married.

It was some days later that the general told Tommy she was coming. Tommy stood in the doorway, very rigid and trying not to inhale germs, and acknowledged that he, too, had had a letter.

“She can’t stay here,” said the general. “Don’t know how the deuce she’s put it over, anyhow. Against every regulation. Likely to make trouble all round. You fellows will have to look after her, y’know. Only going to keep her one day.”

“I was wondering, sir,” said Tommy, “if I could get Paris leave for a day or two. I need some uniforms, sir. Not immediately, sir,” he added hastily, seeing something in the general’s eye. He had no mind to be sent back to Paris while she was in camp.

“I’ll see about it.”

“And—if you are well enough to talk, sir—”

“I’m not,” said the general fretfully. “What is it?”

“I have been thinking about Gray, sir. I understand he is anxious for a commission and that you are thinking of— The recommendations for the candidates’ school are ready to be filled out.”

There was a small twinkle in the general’s eye.

“Run away and play, Tommy,” he said. “There are moments when I realise my age and general unfitness for the service. But I’m still running this division, thank God! And you might intimate as much to the chief of staff sometime.”

Left alone, the general reflected.

“Now Gray,” he considered, “wouldn’t have done that. He’ll use his wits or his fists or both. But I miss my guess if he’d try to put Tommy out of the way.”

Here, however, he dozed off and was only awakened by the arrival of the storm centre, accompanied by two very important general officers and a fatuous captain, who had tucked her up most of the way in the motor and already had the light of insanity in his eyes.

“Mumps!” she said to Tommy. “Why, the poor old dear! Then I’m going to stay right here and nurse him.”

“He needs you,” said Tommy in a maudlin tone. “He needs you awfully. We can put you up, you know. We—”

But she was not listening to Tommy. As a matter of fact, for the last thirty miles she had not heard a thing the general officers said, such as: “It was the plan, in case the enemy reached this point—” or: “These buildings on the right contain engineers’ stores. Those are pontoons for bridges.” Or even the captain: “Are you quite sure your feet are warm?”

She was homing like a pigeon, though she did not know it.

She greeted them all: the judge advocate, who was not really so formidable as his title and should have been in his office at headquarters quarrelling with the mayor about taking over the town hall; and the chaplain, who had an open tenderness for her—only he would have called it _tendresse_ now; and such of the staff as could pretend it had business there; and naturally all the aides. And then she saw Sergeant Gray.

Now it is hard to say just how she had thought of Sergeant Gray. She had always known that Tommy, for instance, and the others, would be living comfortably somewhere and mostly sending out orders to fight and that sort of thing. But Gray was different. She had always pictured him in his helmet, one of a long grim line crouched waiting to go over the top. She had had a number of such pictures of him stored away, but she had not exactly anticipated finding him in charge of a detail cleaning out the town well.

Yet when she looked down the narrow street that is precisely what he was doing. She looked away for fear he might feel uncomfortable and said at once:

“How military you all look! You’re so imposing. Some of you may have noticed,” she added, “that I am in uniform myself.” But she was really saying to herself fiercely that it took all sorts of things to make a war, and certainly clean drinking water was one of them.

So Sergeant Gray kept on with his work and found a number of things that the French population had missed for years, and had continued healthy in spite of, and the general’s official family surrounded one member of his personal family, and clanking with spurs and swollen with rank, took Peggy inside. The odds were certainly Tommy’s that afternoon.