Was he all right? Was he in heaven? At the look on his face I turned away with sudden tears in my eyes. The rest, I know, also avoided that solemn privacy. As it came about, mother, I turned toward Frances, and she, quite overcome, to me. In such a moment of emotion, things happen. As she rested on my breast, we found that she belonged there.
It was the trampling of the major’s horse that brought us to ourselves. The captain, though pale and unsteady, was on his feet. Bannister had drawn the squad quietly out of the shade of the tree. They were looking at the landscape; as for the major, he was most inscrutable, which happens, you know, when there is something to scrutinize. Said he very innocently: “The lieutenant will take the company in, Captain Kirby. I think we’d better ask your friends here to bring you to the surgeon.—Call your men together, Mr. Pendleton!”
The lieutenant, pale as the captain, yet looking very resolute, stepped up to him and wrenched his hand, bowed over Vera’s, turned about and blew his whistle. With his hand he signalled the assembly. And good Bannister, very apologetic at interrupting my love-making, said diffidently “Hem! Squad Eight, fall in!”
But I kissed Frances before them all, and helped the captain into the tonneau, where they established him very comfortably between the two girls. It was not till I had got a smile from him and a proud look from Vera that I went to my place in the company. As I went I saw out of the corner of my eye the major and his staff holding an inquest on the platoon that had fired on us. I wondered who had had that clip of ball cartridges.
But they never found out. We rested for a while at the crossroads, and I can tell you I had to stand some banter from the squad after the motor had shot by us, with Frances’s handkerchief fluttering to me. There was very excited speculation as to the penalty for shooting the captain; some were for a military execution when we got to camp, with burial on the drill field. But the major came and told the lieutenant, and he passed the word to the company—the men who fired on us had used up all their cartridges and moved from the ground before they had been accused of the use of ball; no one knew, apparently not even themselves, who had fired the dangerous shots. It might happen, you know, that a stupid or excited man might load with ball and not be aware of it. As for me, I’m not finding any fault, nor are certain others that I could name.
The march in to camp? To tell the truth, I don’t remember much of it, for I was thinking a good deal. One poor chap we passed as he waited for the hospital truck to come along and pick him up, a disappointed man of fifty, who held his head down and would not look at us as we tramped by in sympathetic silence. As we entered the residence quarter of Plattsburg, where people lined the streets, the whistles blew Halt and we were waved to the two sides of the street: “Fall out to the right and left.” We dropped down on the grass all around a rock where two pretty girls had ensconced themselves to see us pass; instead, we saw them run! Then on we went through the town, marching at attention, with everybody out on the streets to watch the last of the rookies of 1916.
But when we reached the post there was evidently to be a March Past, for the band was playing ahead of us, stationed opposite the general and his staff. We braced ourselves up, swung into line—and there was the captain in front of us! Very pale he was, with a bit of white bandage showing under the hat that had the hole in it. But he was firm on his feet. What a yell for a moment we let out! Then like veterans we followed him with his old familiar stride, and if there was a break in all our line—no, I can’t believe it. We saluted the general, the lieutenant broke us into column of squads, and then we gave Eyes Right to the captain, who stood at salute as we marched by.
The break-up was a heart-rending affair. So much had we been delayed by the unexpected skirmish and the little investigation that there was only the smallest amount of time to turn in our equipment, get our baggage, and catch the trains that would not wait. So in the scrabble were no real good-bys, no friendly little chats about the past and future, no appointments for reunions. I did not even shake hands with Bannister as he hurried to the boat that for some reason was his means of getting away. There were just two little events that I can describe to you.
As we marched into camp David was uneasy, and acknowledged frankly that he was afraid his mother would be there to take him home in the motor. But the familiar strawberry limousine was nowhere to be seen, and as we swung into the company street we saw not David’s mother, but his father in his ancient Panama and his wrinkled business suit. The boy shouted his delight, and when we broke ranks he dragged his father to the tent and introduced him to as many of us as he could pin down for a moment. And a little later, catching both Knudsen and me, he kept us in the tent while he reminded his father of a promise. “You know, father, you said you’d give me any kind of an automobile I wanted, if I stayed through the hike.”
Mr. Farnham had been deeply pleased, you could see it in his face, that David had grown so manly. Consequently he was the more disappointed at this prompt practical demand. But though a shade crossed his face, he answered kindly, “You’ve earned it, David.”