Just as he had finished with one, and had rolled it into a neat ball, a motor cycle came popping into the yard. Buzz looked at Red inquiringly.
“Wonder what that is?” he asked.
The downstairs front door opened; heavy hobnail shoes sounded on the stairs.
“Dunno,” McGee answered, looking at the puttee roll in his hand. “But I’ll wager it’s something that will force me to put this thing on again. I never got an order from headquarters in my life when I hadn’t just finished taking off my putts.”
A heavy knock on the door.
“Come in.”
An orderly entered, saluted smartly, and handed McGee a folded paper. “A note from Major Cowan, sir. He said there would be no answer.”
“Very well. Thank you, Rawlins. For a moment I thought it might be orders for the front.”
“No chance, sir. We’re the goats of the air service. The war will be over before we get a chance. I say they’d as well kept us at home where we could get real food and sleep in real beds instead of these blasted hay mows us enlisted men sleep in.”
“Right you are, Rawlins. I’ll speak to the Commanding General about it to-morrow. In the meantime, carry on, Rawlins.”