This man, attired in the uniform of the United States Marine Corps, with the emblems of a top sergeant emblazoned upon each sleeve, was a taciturn, hard-boiled individual who had passed through four enlistments in the service of his country’s sea soldiers.
With the government’s aviation expansion program came a desire to win new glories as a pilot, so Sergeant Williams, who had served his country in the four corners of the globe, on land and sea, took to the air and again made good.
This soldier, who found keen enjoyment in the coquetry of a tropical native girl, the roar of a sixteen-inch gun or the intricacies of a Wright motor, lounged in a box at the Yale Bowl, visibly bored with the activities going on about him, and completely unresponsive to the spirit of the play; a direct contrast to the Marine beside him, who sat, seething with emotion.
Over by the Yale bench, the worried coach, now confronted with the reality that his star player was lost to this game, entered into a hurried conference with his assistants.
Each man viewed the row of players sprawled on the bench before them until the eyes of the coach fell upon the tall, gaunt figure of a fair-haired youth who sat, wrapped in a blanket, twitching his large fingers from nervousness.
“I’m going to send in Phelps as Baer’s substitute,” the coach announced at length, his words almost deafened by the roars of objections raised by his assistants.
“Lefty Phelps?” Scotty, the coach’s chief aid, questioned, “Why, he’s never been in a big game in his life!”
“If you put him in as quarter,” another assistant ventured, “we’re bound to take plenty of punishment.”
“Why?” the coach asked, visibly determined in having his own way.
“Well, for one thing, he’s the nervous type,” Scotty explained, “and it’s just that failing that may break up the game.”