shortly after the great argonne offensive commenced, the fifth corps air service was visited by a small troop of y. m. c. a. entertainers. i was at their airdrome at the time. in the party were two young ladies, one blonde and the other a brunette. as i was a sort of special boarder myself, i was very fortunately a guest at the headquarters mess, and at the head of the table sat lieutenant colonel a. r. christie, who was the commander-in-chief of the corps air service. i had heard early in the afternoon that these girls were coming, and it had been so long since i had seen a real american girl that my enthusiasm over their prospective arrival was not exceeded by a country lad’s anticipation of his first circus.
as luck would have it, at the dinner table i was seated next to the brunette, which was just what i had wanted. i must say she was a “queen.” she had eyes that were all eyes, and when she smiled it seemed, as the poet would say, just like the flooding of a dark and desolate dungeon with the glorious light of day. she wore a daintily scented perfume that made it all seem to be just like the environment 140of a wonderful rose garden and this girl was the loveliest rose of them all.
i immediately felt my insignificance, for i was only a lieutenant, and around me were colonels, majors and captains, and on account of this subordinance i knew my place demanded reticence rather than verbosity. therefore, when introduced i merely told her quite formally how happy i was to know her and then i closed shop with all the good intentions of a huge, triple-locked, steel safe. however, eileen, for this was her name, had the master combination for unlocking the deposit box of pentup conversation. she started it, but after she had been going for two or three minutes, rank did not amount to anything to me, because i was quite sure, as i had been several times before and have been several times since, that this was the one girl god had made for elmer. so to me rank was business and love was pleasure, and pleasure superseded business.
versatility was this girl’s middle name, and to my great surprise she even had a conversational knowledge of aerial observation, which is, indeed, unusual for a woman. perhaps the reason she was so friendly to me was that i had some knowledge of aviation myself, and she wanted to learn more. she asked me no questions, however, simply volunteered her own information, so i felt she could not possibly be a spy, but whether she was or not it didn’t matter to me, for i was thoroughly convinced that there never before had been a girl like this and there never could be another afterwards.
141while dining, it developed that i was especially anxious to get a method for the rapid adjustment of artillery fire on moving targets. i explained to her that while it was no easy matter to make an adjustment on a moving target even in a quiet sector in closed warfare, the observer, at least, had the advantage of knowing where the battery was located, what the battery’s signal panels would look like and what code signals both would use and what method of fire the battery would pursue. but in a war of movement in which we were engaged, our own batteries were constantly on the move, and even if we did find a battery that was not moving there was no way of finding what code call it had been assigned, for the reason that they never displayed their panels as prescribed when taking a temporary position. so i explained in a careless way just what difficulties i had to surmount before reaching a successful method satisfactory for all conditions. perhaps i said a little more than i should, but i couldn’t help it. i simply had to talk to this girl. she had the art of flattery well in hand, for she delighted me by demanding what business i had serving as an ordinary observer with my superior knowledge of things, whereupon i told her what a great man i really was—that i was the operations officer for the air service of the entire wing, which consisted of six corps, and that i was only in this drive doing very special work. this sounded bigger than it really was, but it seemingly got by, for she seemed very sympathetic from 142the first. i was quite sure i had won my happy home.
that night, upon an improvised stage in one of our huge airplane hangars, she sang. galli-curci, breslau, schumann-heink or farrar had nothing on her. she trilled and as she trilled, i thrilled. i even had wild ideas of a little home in california and everything. after the performance was over i reported for duty and we started to walk back to the main quarters together, she having spurned the proffer of one of my superior officer’s car. i had just made a grand and glorious spiel about the beautiful night, and the myriads of twinkling stars in the heavens, and how wonderful it was to be walking along in the lovely delight of it all with such a charming and entertaining companion, and how i dreaded to think that in the morning i must go out to fly again and might never come back to all these wonderful things.
i was raving and sputtering away, the enslaved victim of temperament, sentiment and ephemeral love. in brooding over the possible tragedy of the next day i was, of course, fishing for sympathy, expecting her to say, “oh, don’t talk like that,” or something similar to jolly me along, but she evidently had had that line pulled on her before.
“you know, lieutenant,” she smilingly said in a voice as welcome as that of a dying aunt about to give you a hundred thousand dollars, “i’ve been thinking of the wonderful work you are doing, and while i was singing my first song to-night i looked 143down at you and i had an inspiration which i think will help you.”
this was the highest compliment i had ever been paid in my life. i had disgusted people, displeased them, and even been repulsive to some, but this was the first time i had ever been the cause of inspiring any one. i thought it was the psychological moment to put the question. i had previously concluded that when a woman begins to talk about inspiration she has fallen in love herself, so without inquiring further about this particular inspiration, i turned to love.
“eileen,” i said, and my voice quivered, for i had not called her that before—it had been miss ——, “do you know, i want to ask you a question.”
she said nothing, and i did not look, though i was certain that she had modestly turned her head away from me, bashfully anticipating the fatal question which was sure to come.
“do you know, eileen,” i stammered on, nodding my head affirmatively in order to carry along with my words additional evidence of my sincerity, “i have been wondering why you have paid this attention to me to-night and have been heedless of the pressing attentions of the colonels, the majors and the captains. i don’t like to talk like this so soon, but you are leaving to-morrow and i might never have another opportunity.”
then i thought of that song, “just you, dear, just you,” and i knew quite well that she would say that she had been giving me all this attention amidst the 144jealous and envious looks of my superior officers because she, herself, individually wished to and because she liked or maybe loved me. whereupon i was going to second the motion and say, “ditto, i love you, eileen,” and all that sort of bunk and close the contract. i pictured myself enfolding her in my willing arms and making solemn vows such as i would stand on my ear for her, etc.; all of this, of course, being contingent upon her responding in the way i fully expected.
smiling—her teeth reflected glory in the moonlight—she demurely asked me, “why, don’t you know?” that would have been all right ordinarily, but it had a ringing inflection i failed to comprehend, and being a man of words instead of action, i said, “no, i don’t know.”
“well,” she went on rather surprised at my stupidity, “you see, our manager instructed us that the higher officers do not need the attention and encouragement of the young ladies because they do not have to undergo any hardships, so we have been instructed to pay as much attention as possible to the junior officers, and as you were about the most junior here—well——”
this was sufficient. i realized that i was on about the fifty-fourth floor of the woolworth building and had better catch the express elevator down, for it was going to be an awful fall. i had hit the mat and was already taking the count.
“i was telling you about the inspiration,” she went on, and in a hollow voice i said, “yes, miss ——,” 145swallowing many cubic feet of chagrin and remorse, yet still determined.
“i think i have a plan for adjusting your batteries. i got the idea while i was singing to-night. of course, i know nothing about the practical part of it, but why wouldn’t it work this way?” and she roughly described a scheme that seemed about as feasible as most military tactics that women conceive. i offered her no encouragement, but she asked me if i wouldn’t try it out and i told her i would do anything for her. it would, at least, give me some excuse for keeping in touch with her, since i could inform her from time to time how her system was getting along, and i was firmly bent, in spite of the momentary rebuff i had just received, upon knowing this charming and bewitching damsel better.
as usual, the night gave me the opportunity to calm down considerably, so the next morning i took off quite early, the same old guy as before, with no domestic worries. eileen was momentarily forgotten—my ardor was perhaps but a passing fantasy.
at a little village several miles north of montfaucon there is quite a fork having two roads branching off to the south and over which the germans were passing in their forced retreat. flying in that direction the approaching roads were dotted with scattered german transports which consisted of many horses and very few motor vehicles as the germans were short of gasoline and what they did have of this scarce article they used for their airplanes—their general transportation work was carried 146on largely by horses and a more extended use of their steam locomotives and railroads. but, coming from the south were several of these convoys trudging along as fast as they could, which, at best, was very slow. this was unusual for a retreat is generally done under cover of darkness, but, i suppose this material was such that it had to be moved at all costs.
ah! i thought, this is a splendid target. i’ll put the artillery on. so, directing the pilot to go back to our own battery, i began to make furious attempts to get into communication with our artillery, by flying low and finding the location with the naked eye.
again my theory of the previous day seemed to be all wrong, for in spite of all i could do i couldn’t get an answer from any of our batteries. finally, flying extremely low i found a couple of them and threw them messages. neither of them would fire. why? i don’t know. perhaps they were about to move up again. however, i knew that of all of the batteries in our division there must a few that could work. here was a wonderful target. i was to the last straw—there didn’t seem to be anything else to do but go home, so, pretty well disgruntled i motioned the pilot to go on home. thus, my mind being freed of the cares and responsibilities of the mission, it naturally began to turn toward the personal interests of life, and, naturally enough i thought of my recently acquired acquaintance, eileen—and instantly i remembered her inspiration—that silly, tactical 147dream she had conceived the night before. i knew it was impossible to try it out as she had suggested it, but the principle had possibilities, and seemed to be worth taking a chance on. if it failed, it would do no harm, and, at least, i could give her some kind of a report.
attracting the pilot’s attention, i motioned him to turn around and although he gave me a look that indicated he had some doubt as to my mental balance, he followed the instructions. it was just a hunch at most. instead of calling the particular batteries designated to fire on fugitive targets i calmly proceeded to call each and all of the twenty-four batteries assigned to the division. in about five minutes, to my extreme delight, i picked up a new panel from a battery. consulting my chart i found its call. i immediately wired them a message and instantly they put out the panel “i got you” or “understood.” communication was established. the inspiration was a success.
over to my right, my eye caught another panel of another battery. consulting my chart again i found that they were both heavy artillery—just what i wanted! the only fault with this method was that with so much wireless being flashed through the air it would very likely interfere with any other plane doing similar work in that sector. i knew of no other aerial adjustments going on just then, so, the chance was worth it.
having gotten the two batteries ready to work i wired to every other battery i had called, sending 148them the code message, “i have no further need for you,” this, in order that they would not, by any chance, hold up their firing on account of my previous message. “well,” i thought, “the nice thing about eileen is that she is not only beautiful and can sing, but she is sane—she has a good bean.” even before i had done the work, which i felt sure i would be able to accomplish, i was formulating dreams of the way she would receive me when i told her of the great success of her inspiration.
i did not register these two batteries on the road fork, itself, for should the first few shells fall near the road fork it would give a preliminary warning and the germans would, undoubtedly, stop their traffic and scatter. a few shells, even if they did happen to hit, would not serve the end i had in mind. i was thinking of something bigger—a few pot shots on the road would do more harm than good. so, selecting a point about a quarter of a mile, directly to the right of the road fork, i reported the location to the battery. of course, consulting their maps, they could not find a legitimate reason for my desire to fire on this particular point; that is, from its natural location, but fortunately they did not question my decision and presently gave me the signal “o.k.” i immediately wired them to fire. on account of the hasty advances it had been necessary for these batteries to make, their firing data was considerably off, so, it took me almost an hour to get the two of them accurately placed on my temporary target. this accomplished, i began 149to again pay attention to the road fork. our firing had not interrupted the traffic. coming from the south about a quarter of a mile down, there seemed to be approaching quite a composite transport made up of wagons drawn by about four horses each, and coming from the north, approaching the same road fork, were a body of men and some horses. the men were not mounted, except in a few instances, and i should say there were almost a hundred men and about forty horses. to the best of my calculations, the head of the column coming from the south would pass this body of men with their horses at the road fork within a few minutes. with the road fork filled with passing troops and horses it would be all the more advantageous as a target.
the mathematical calculations and mechanical adjustments necessary for the batteries to correct a difference of a quarter of a mile in deflection, are considerable, i had been told, so, it was necessary that they know their new target immediately in order that they might fire immediately at my command. i wired them to change their target three hundred meters to the left and then i specified the exact point by giving the co?rdinate location and last i told them to be prepared to go into a “zone fire” at signal. “zone fire” is the deadliest of all destructive fire. it consists of firing the guns as rapidly as possible into an area, or zone, immediately adjacent to the target specified. the object of zone fire is that by the scattering of shells the target will certainly be hit by at least a few of the shells and if 150the target is large, as was the case here, the results would be disastrous.
to impress upon the batteries the urgency of speeding up their corrections i continually wired them in code, “is battery ready?” “is battery ready?” they put out the panels “wait a few minutes,” but i continued to wire, “is battery ready?” we had no code for “hurry up;” i wished many times we had, for the columns were fast approaching each other. in a few minutes it would be too late to get both columns. i realized those battery commanders had just cause to make use of an extended stream of profane language when i gave them that large correction of three hundred meters or a quarter of a mile after adjusting them to such a fine point, for, undoubtedly, they could not see the necessity for it. fortunately they both had confidence and stayed with me. just as the heads of the two columns began to pass each other, which was just a little north of the cross roads, the first battery put out a panel, “battery is ready.”
the airplane signal to fire was three long wireless emissions so it was only necessary now to press the key three times and the show would be on. i called the battery rapidly, but before i gave the fatal signal i thought of the warden of the penitentiary about to press the fatal buzzer that sends the doomed soul to his death. the simile naturally struck me for i had a hundred men and more horses directly in my trap. there was no way for them to escape. the deadly zone fire, with the speed of lightning, would 151soon crush them. i could imagine our men at their guns in the improvised battery pits, ready for the minutes of strenuous work before them, waiting for the radio buzzer to speak and command. as i looked down i could see the troops and transports were already passing each other—the road fork was filled—it was now time to act. i felt as if i simply could not bring myself to the point of pressing the key. the men and the crushing out of their lives, the blighting of the hopes of many fond sweethearts, the wrecking of many homes and the grief of many mothers were strangely enough only passing thoughts, for it had to be done—“c’est la guerre”—they were the enemies of my country. but there was another side of the story, the horses—for if there is any one thing in my life i have always loved it is a horse. since i was a lad i have always picked up with the worst old skate in the town just out of sympathy, and to see a man abusing a horse would draw me into a fist fight quicker than anything else. the poor horses—dumb and senseless—they were not my enemies, except from a cold-blooded standpoint regarding them as war material of the enemy.
looking back i found that the other battery had put out their panel “battery is ready.” it sternly called me back to my duty and the task before me for it was not the time to indulge in sentimental reveries—i must act! i hastily called the second battery and again repeated my call to the first, then directing my pilot to head toward home i took one 152last look at the slowly moving, unsuspecting columns—then, setting my face homeward, i firmly pressed the key—one, two, three times.
there was no doubt in my mind but that we should call it a day, so, we were homeward bound with that intention. from a strictly military standpoint we were proud enough of our performance and as we winged our way along i took things easy but kept casually looking about the sky to see that we were not taken unawares by any stray patrols. looking ahead i saw the friendly captive balloons lolling along peaceably enough and my mind was centered pretty largely upon the seemingly monotonous existence of the men in the balloons who had to stay in one position for hour after hour, but i shuddered as i thought of being forced to jump from one of those bags in case of attack. after all, i was glad i was in an airplane instead of a balloon.
for quite a while it seemed that we were lower than the balloons, then suddenly the balloons seemed to be considerably below us. my impression was that we were gaining altitude, but upon consulting my altimeter i found that we were flying at a constant height. one thing was certain, the balloons were getting lower; they no longer lolled, but everything seemed taut. for some reason they were frantically being hauled down. i readily ascertained the reason,—four german fokkers coming head-on from hunland with the undeniable intention of either burning the balloons or burning me. i hesitated a moment; the huns kept straight 153on and i heaved a big sigh of relief. they were not going to burn me; at least, not for the present. the balloons seemed to be going down mighty slow, and the planes were coming fast. if the huns could be stopped for only a half-minute the balloons would be safe. here we were in a very happy position to divert the attack should we care to and also in a very unhappy position if we did not care to, for while it was not our duty to attack, yet indeed, in this case, it was our privilege. my mind was not made up what to do. if we turned to the right we would be directly in their path and above them. from instinct i shook the plane and motioned toward the four fokkers and before i knew it, the pilot, thinking i intended to attack, started directly toward them.
now there is a vast difference between maneuvering for the purpose of diverting and maneuvering for the purpose of attack, for had it been one or two planes i would not have hesitated to attack under the circumstances, but i want to say that i’ll wait a long, long time before attacking four fast enemy fokkers of my own accord under any circumstances.
it is surprising how rapidly two planes, when approaching each other from opposite directions, can come together, for before i had time to actually realize what was happening we were in the midst of a one-sided running fight in which we were doing the running and in which the germans were peppering lead into us from all sides.
we had accomplished our mission for when the 154german planes attacked us, it guaranteed that they would not be able to attack the balloons, which would have plenty of time to be hauled down to a position of safety at their beds. while the diverting was successful, the diversion of diverting was not, for we still had to get ourselves out of the mess.
we were going in some direction, but which direction it was i didn’t know and did not care. right after us were these four fokkers. this was the first opportunity i had ever had to make a comparison of the salmson plane in a running fight. it was wonderful, for while the germans were a little faster, it was hardly noticeable. the horrible truth of our predicament did not dawn upon me until, by some hunch, i looked at the ground during the fight and saw already considerably behind us, the village of montfaucon, which is so clearly and unmistakably discernible from the air. i realized we had been completely outmaneuvered, for we were headed straight and going farther and farther into germany. no wonder the boche had not closed in on us. they were simply leading us to our slaughter on their own ground, or even worse, if we did survive we would be prisoners of war, a thought i had always dreaded much more than death, for once in flying over pagny-sur-meuse in the saint mihiel fight, i saw the thousands of huns we had captured packed in bull pens like so many cattle. from this i preferred death to prison. dropping my machine guns for the moment i violently pulled the cords that were tied to the pilot’s arms and emphatically motioned him to turn completely around. he seemed to think that we were headed toward home and was extremely obstinate. the situation was serious; it was no time for discussion. i was sure of my direction. reaching over the cockpit i frantically struck him on the shoulder and demanded that he turn around.
pagny-sur-meuse, showing prisoners captured by the americans at st. mihiel
155we turned and as we did the germans realized that we had found ourselves and the battle royal ensued. the leader came first and behind him the three others in good formation, throwing two singing streams of fire from each plane, for in attacking balloons they used incendiary bullets. the leader, to my mind, was the only one that seemed to have had experience—he was, indeed, good—but the rest of them i thought were boobs—they did not seem to have the least bit of initiative, always waiting for the leader and doing exactly whatever he did first. then they tried a formation i had never seen before. climbing about two hundred feet above and on all sides of us, they kept making a series of short dives, each plane firing about twenty-five rounds at each dive. the object of this was undoubtedly to get our morale and if possible force us down without taking a chance on coming close where machine gun fire could become effective. this was to our advantage for we were making time toward home and i only had one full magazine of ammunition left and it was all in my right gun.
upon seeing that we were not falling for their cunning ruse the leader became unusually bully and came directly upon us. i let him have it for a 156burst of about forty rounds which i knew went into his plane and at the end of which he had gone under my tail in a dive. it looked as if i had gotten him. with typical precision the other three came on. i deliberately aimed my gun upon the nearest, greatly encouraged in the belief that i had gotten the leader. their bullets of fire were going into my plane, but with a most deliberate aim i again pulled the trigger. it would not fire. at most i had only sixty rounds left, but even in sixty rounds there was hope. the gun was jammed and i could not get the magazine off to put it on the other gun. i was desperate. how close the three came i do not know, but seeing my predicament they realized my helplessness and pounced upon me like a toy target. frantically i worked at the gun, my hands bruised and bleeding, hopelessly trying to unlock the jam for a last chance with life. if i only had something to fit in the cocking piece to give me enough leverage to clear that jam. in my mad desperation and hopelessness i looked around for something to hurl—anything to get them away. there was nothing to be done—it was all up with us. by chance i glanced into the bottom of the cockpit and on the floor my eyes caught sight of a very pistol which had been left in the plane by the observer on the previous mission whose duty it had been to find the front line of our advanced troops.
a very pistol is a gun resembling an ordinary pistol, except that it has a wide barrel. it is used to eject brilliant fire rockets as a signal from the 157airplane to the infantry. these signals vary with the number of stars fired. for instance, a rocket of six stars means “where are you? show your panels,” whereupon the infantry displays its white panels of cloth, while three rockets indicates “understood” upon which the infantry takes in its panels of white cloth.
i grabbed this very pistol in a wild effort to throw it as a last means of defense, but the three had already passed under my tail, while to my disappointing surprise, i discovered that i had not gotten the leader as i had thought—he was coming up under my tail, already firing. the others seemed to be getting their formation behind him. as the leader came up under me in a final blow of death, i madly drew the pistol back in a position to hurl it at him when the sudden idea struck me that if it were loaded i would have a chance to set him afire. the cartridge was intact—it was ready to be fired. amidst his volley of fire, i reached far over the cockpit and as the leader passed beneath me, i fired. the charge missed him completely, but directly behind him burst the signal—six flaming stars which brilliantly floated slowly on toward earth. my last chance had failed.
suddenly resigned to my fate i awaited the onrush of the other three—i was sure it was only a matter of seconds—i had no defense. to my absolute surprise the first of the three violently tilted his plane, banked to the right, and the other two followed. i was at a loss to understand this move; then came another thought—there was still a chance. rapidly 158ejecting the empty cardboard shell from the very pistol i attempted to adjust the barrel to the cocking piece of my jammed machine gun. it fitted—here was the needed instrument of leverage—with all my force i jerked—something gave way and i fell to the other side of the cockpit—from the side of the gun there hung a mashed defective cartridge and the jam was cleared. with luck, there were fifty or sixty bullets left. approaching me again was the leader, but where were the other three? i glanced back—they were still headed to the right—they had left the fight. calmly i waited his onslaught. boldly coming up with the certain knowledge that i was still helpless and certainly his easy prey, he came, for nothing but wonderful luck on our part and rotten shooting on theirs had saved us so far. this time he did not fire until he had dead aim, nor did i fire until i had dead aim. following his approach with extreme care and closest possible adjusted sights, i waited. when i was sure, i pulled the trigger—i don’t know how many rounds he fired, but only a few, for my aim had been true—his guns suddenly stopped—his plane climbed steeply, even up beyond me, then tumbled over in a sort of half loop and began to swish away helplessly to one side and then to the other, like a falling leaf—at last it dived headlong and from its last dive it never recovered.
my ammunition was gone, but to the greatest of luck and horseshoes, i attributed the fact that the other three planes were also gone. in a few moments 159more we again passed over montfaucon and crossed the lines. the balloons were just beginning to rise again. “well,” i thought as we passed them, “you seem to be safe enough this time, and i must say i admire you for going up again so soon after such a narrow escape, but for me—never again! i’m going to stay on the ground the rest of my life.”
of course, i often wondered why those other three huns had left the fight. here is the solution of the mystery. at christmas time, three months later, i was in coblenz, on the rhine. the war was over and we were a part of the army of occupation. under the terms of the armistice the germans had to turn over two hundred airplanes to the americans and were to send twenty german flyers along to test the planes in the presence of competent american judges before they were accepted. late in the evening, after a joyous christmas dinner, at which wine and merriment abounded, an orderly came in and told us there were two german officers to report. we found that they were two of the flyers detailed by the german government to turn over the planes. one of them was a lad named donhauser, who claimed to have shot down twenty-six allied planes, among them quentin roosevelt; the other was a lad named teske, who also was an ace. we invited them to join us, and during the conversation that followed it was interesting to note the many battle fronts over which we had fought against each other. upon discussing the argonne it developed that donhauser’s squadron was opposite the area in which i had this 160fight on the twenty-eighth of september, so, i took occasion to clear up the incomprehensible reason why these three had left the fight. i casually asked him if at a certain hour, at a certain place, on a certain date, he had a patrol, evidently bent upon attacking balloons, diverted by a bi-place observation plane. he took out a little book from his pocket and after hastily scanning the well-kept notes, he looked up and said, “was one of the deutschen planes shot down?” i answered “yes.” “do you know if it was the leader?” he inquired. i told him i thought it was. he again verified the time and the place and then opened up. this was his story:
“the leader, who was shot down, was an exceptionally good flyer and had several victories to his credit. there was something queer about it—in the squadron it was known as the ‘mystery mission’ for the reason that three of the german planes left the fight when the observation plane was absolutely helpless with jammed machine guns. they claimed that the german leader had fired a signal rocket to them, which was their signal for that day which meant for all the planes to leave the fight at once as larger allied patrols were approaching.”
he explained that the german theory was that in obeying the signal the three german planes had left the fight, but the leader, being a very daring fighter, took a last chance, hoping to get away before the reinforcements arrived, and in attacking the observation plane alone, was shot down. he also said that this was the story the three had told, who all claimed 161to have seen the signal fired by their leader. even at that they were threatened with court-martial for cowardice in leaving the combat and deserting their leader, and they were only saved by several german officers, who had also seen the same signal from the ground, testifying in their behalf.
thus—the mystery was cleared—the very pistol had saved the day. it was, after all, better that i had not set the leader afire with the flaming rockets. indeed, they had served a greater use.
what happened to eileen? naturally that should be explained. well, it’s this way: i had a lot to tell her, so, when i got to the airdrome i hastened across the field to the headquarters to find her.
“lad,” i said to the orderly standing in front of the headquarters, “have the pretty girls of the y. m. c. a. gone yet?”
“yep,” he replied, “that’s them goin’ down there now—to souilly,” and he pointed to a huge cloud of dust following the trail of an army auto a half mile down the road, and in that cloud of dust, seemingly rising into the sky, floated also my fond hopes and prospects of eileen, for conditions, in a few days, made it impracticable for me to follow her movements for some time to come.
“well,” i said, sort of sorry like that they had gone, “they were sure pretty girls, weren’t they?”
“yep,” he grinned.
“especially the black-haired one,” i went on.
“yep, she’s mine, lieutenant. she’s been talking 162to me for a half an hour this morning,” and again he grinned sheepishly, until his grin almost became a smile, and we both looked longingly down the road where the car was fast disappearing from view.
i looked at the orderly and the orderly looked at me. “talked to you half an hour, eh?” i questioned. “yep, fully that,” was the proud reply. i put my hands in my pockets and started to walk away muttering to myself “how do they do it? how do they do it?”—for this soldier was about the homeliest and most unattractive person i could imagine, yet he had evidently put my hopes to rout in quick order. then came an idea: and i wheeled around and called to the soldier, “hey, boy, what’s your rank?” “ain’t got no rank, sir,” he replied; “i’m a buck private.” whistling a light tune i walked on. “i get it, i get it,” was my soliloquy. “eileen still following instructions on catering to the junior ranks. she’s sour grapes.” and thus she passed from my life—but i hope not forever.
