“Yep,” he grinned.
“Especially the black-haired one,” I went on.
“Yep, she’s mine, Lieutenant. She’s been talking to 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.
VIII
DOWN AND OUT AND IN
Eddie Rickenbacker told me a story while we were a part of the Army of Occupation which about expresses my idea of this narrative, the fact that I lived through it being what I consider my greatest accomplishment.
“Rick” had in his famous 94th Pursuit Squadron, a hair-lipped pilot with whom I was earlier associated in the equally prominent 12th Observation Squadron. This lad was one of the few of our many airmen who realized that the flyer at the front plays ninety per cent in luck and not on good judgment. His flying was daredevilish and reckless, which, while it might be considered good form in pursuit work, was such that it involved entirely too great a risk for the two-place, or observation plane. So, the kid was transferred to Pursuit where he made good right off.
It was the day of the Armistice. The boys were talking it all over, reminiscing and the like. Several of the famous pilots of the 94th had given accounts of some particular thrilling fight in which they had finally won, naming it—their greatest accomplishment of the war. So, as that was the topic of conversation, Eddie asked our friend what, after all, he considered his greatest accomplishment. The boys all listened attentively for the kid usually sprang something. The hair-lipped lad puzzled for a moment, then answered with his inimitable impediment, “Well, Captain Rickenbacker, the war is now over, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” replied Eddie, hopeful that this was the correct reply.
“——which means no one else will get killed, doesn’t it?” he added solemnly, and Rick solemnly attested to this fact. “Well,” the lad went on, “you see me; I’m still here.”