“But he didn’t get no time for a real good laff, ’cause jus’ den de enermy begun to charge us, an’ he had his han’s full keepin’ de boys from fightin’ in earnest. For our fellies wasn’t goin’ to let K walk on deir necks. But ’twas ’gainst orders for bayonets to be crossed, an’ so we played dat we was captured. But we wasn’t, all de same, for if’t had b’en really war we’d have kep’ a coroner’s jury busy for a week sortin’ out de remains o’ K.
“An’ dat, sir,” said Major Larry, facing towards the colonel with a final salute, “near’s I c’n remember, is w’at A done, two weeks ago yesterd’y, at de right o’ Major Pollard’s line o’ battle.”
The colonel brought out a half-dollar. “Larry,” said he, handing it to the boy, “we all are greatly indebted to you for your excellent and most technical report. For my own part, I can truthfully say that I’ve learned a great deal about grand strategy. You are excused, with the thanks of all present.”
Larry left the room with the step of a grenadier. Rodman closed his note-book with a snap, saying softly, “That’ll be good for two columns.” There was an instant of awed silence. And then the colonel turned to the adjutant, and said, “Hereafter, Charley, there’ll be two reports made of anything that A may be concerned in—one written, and one oral. That’s a standing order. See?”
Rodman’s notes worked up to two columns and a half of the next day’s Globe, and for a second time Major Larry Callahan found himself locally famous. What Captain Tom Stearns said when his eye fell upon the marked copy of the paper which was thoughtfully mailed to him by the adjutant, is not upon record. But it is a fact that he has been more than prompt, of late, in the matter of forwarding required reports.
SPECIAL ORDERS, NO. 49.
They call it the incurable ward. In coming down the corridor one sees above its doorway, upon the blank, white wall, a plain, black letter A. It almost seems as though the painter had thought to transcribe there, “All hope abandon”—and then had relented, after outlining the initial letter of the grisly legend. Perhaps he well might have finished his work, for those who enter that quiet room are borne thither because their days are nearly numbered.
On that afternoon there was but one patient in Ward A. He seemed content to lie motionless, watching with drowsy, half-closed eyes the play of a stray shaft of sunlight upon the snowy counterpane. Beside him, steadily swinging a fan, sat a white-robed nurse. The long June day was wearing slowly on towards its ending.