“Go right in. He’s waiting.”
Tommy went in and stood with trembling knees before the C. O. He was a large florid man with beetling brows and his manner was not encouraging.
“You? Well? What about it?”
Tommy explained as well as he could, stressing his innocence. He thought his plea must have softened an executioner, but Major Krause was uncompromising in attitude and words.
“Young man,” he said, “you are a disgrace, sir! A disgrace to the United States Army!” Tommy thought he had heard those words before. “We have been having considerable trouble with the guard. Those cadets are the worst disciplined body of men I ever saw.” Again a familiar note.
“As for you—you seem to have trouble keeping awake. A permanent assignment as commander of the guard ought to give you beneficial practise at it. Of course, after keeping awake all night, you will need to sleep in the day-time. You are therefore relieved from flying duty. Report at guard mount this evening and every evening until further orders. That will do.”
Tommy saluted and went out, his heart sinking. There were only three known ways of getting out of Issy-la-Boue. The first was to break your neck. The second was to fly so well that you were graduated. The third was to fly so poorly that you were sent to Blooey for reclassification, probably as an armament officer. Which was generally considered the lowest form of life so far discovered in the air service.
All these methods were dependent on flying. Once a man was taken off flying duty, it took an act of Congress to get him away from the place.
The little man wended his way back to the barracks. His comrades were sitting on their bunks, and he poured his tale of woe into their receptive ears. Being beyond words, they accorded him silent sympathy. Finally Fat spoke:
“Well, I’m lucky to be out of it. Say, did you hear the news? Brock was washed out on the fifteens this morning.”