“Sure thing, sir,” said the sergeant major cheerily. “He was asking for you.”
On a stretcher, waiting to be lifted into the ambulance, he found his father, lying white and still.
“Dad!” cried Barry, dropping to his knees beside him. He put his arms around him on the stretcher, and kissed him on both cheeks and on the lips. They all drew back from the stretcher and turned their backs upon the two.
“Barry, my boy. Thank the good God! I feared I would not see you. It's all right now. Everything is all right now. I can't put my arms around you, boy. I haven't any left.”
Barry's shudder shook the stretcher.
“Dad, dad, oh, dad!” he whispered, over and over again.
“It's all right,” whispered his father. “We must not forget we're soldiers. Help me to keep up, boy. I'm not very strong.”
That pitiful word did for Barry what nothing else could do. He lifted his head, stood up and drew a deep breath.
“Sure thing, dad,” he said, in a clear, steady voice. “I mustn't keep you.”
He motioned to the bearers. Then suddenly recollecting that his duty would call him away from his father, he turned to the M. O., an agony of supplication in his voice.