His newly opened eyes focused at last—not on the blue sky, with its hell of flame and smoke, but on the dingy gray canvas ceiling of a tent.
This was all wrong. He raised himself on one elbow to peer about him.
A sharp dizziness well-nigh made him swoon. At the same instant he was aware that the unbearable din of musketry and artillery had ceased and that soothing quiet reigned everywhere.
Exhausted, he fell back, his head sinking into the depths of a soft pillow. Someone crossed the tent hastily and stood beside him.
It was Battle Jimmie.
For the briefest interval, as he lay blinking at his grandson, Dad believed they were back at Ideala, and that the boy had crept into his room, as had been his wont, for a good-night chat. Then he noted the lad’s ill-fitting uniform, and reason came to its own again.
For a full minute they remained, without speech, looking into each other’s eyes, while slowly Dad’s brain cleared and he began to realize where he was.
“Dad!” whispered Jimmie at last. “Dad, do you know me?”
“Know you?” repeated Dad, in a weak but honestly surprised voice. “Why shouldn’t I know you? What a crazy question, son, to ask me!”
Jimmie gripped one of Dad’s hands in both his own.