“No, an’ you won’t prob’ly, till next spring,” returned the driver.
He turned off the rough but hard road through the gateway into the camp, and the engine of the truck began to labor as its wheels sank deep into the soft mud, so he shifted into second. Once more the truck lurched forward, but only for a moment. The driver shifted back into first, but the new impetus gained was only temporary, and presently the chainless wheels spun vainly. The driver shut off his motor and climbed to the ground.
“This is as far as we can go, Lieutenant,” he said. “You’ll have to lug your own baggage in from here. The frogs won’t let us use chains on the road, so they took ’em away from us.”
He proceeded around to the back of the truck and let down the tailboard with a bang. Tommy climbed down gingerly, but immediately sank almost to his knees. The driver was dragging out his bed roll and trunk, which fell to the ground with a squashy sound; then he went around to the front of the truck and began to labor at the crank.
“What do I do now?” asked Tommy, looking around.
There wasn’t another soul anywhere in sight.
“Report to the personnel officer up there,” answered the driver, waving his arm vaguely toward the row of long barrack buildings nearby. So saying, he climbed once more to the seat and began to churn his way backward toward firmer ground.
Leaving the sad monument of his baggage, Tommy sloughed through the mud until he reached a pathway of duckboards which ran parallel to the row of barracks. On one of these buildings was a sign, and as he approached it, the latest addition to the great American flying field was able to see that it read as follows:
PERSONNEL OFFICE
for