Company K (Library Alabama Classics) Page 12

  Then he noticed that the fawn had thrust its head between the iron bars of the gate and was regarding him, across the muddy road, with eager, infatuated eyes. Hymie whistled softly—ingratiatingly. Instantly the little fawn lunged against the gate, a ripple of excitement passing over its nervous body. It stood there trembling for a moment, then it withdrew from the gate and minced across the lawn, switching its fluff of a tail and running in sudden, clowning circles. Finally it stopped and looked at Hyman White to see if its efforts had been appreciated.

  The soldiers laughed loudly at its antics. At the sound of their laughter the old lady paused in her speech, her right hand pointing straight up to the spot in the sky that she considered the abode of God, and the other resting on the black head of the little girl, who had turned and was clapping her hands in delight. The old lady smiled indulgently, stroked the cheek of the little girl, and, with another blown kiss and a low bow, brought to an end her speech. A dozen soldiers crowded in front of the gate, snapping their fingers and whistling to attract the attention of the fawn, but it ignored them: it gazed with fascinated eyes at Hyman White, alone.

  “Try it again, Hymie!” said Graley Borden.

  Again Hymie gave his long, soft whistle and, as if awaiting that signal, the little fawn ran crazily up the walk, kicking its heels in the air and showing the creamy softness of its belly. It made sudden, idiotic rushes at flower-beds and leafless shrubs, bracing itself quickly in time to avoid a collision, only to dash off, crazily, at another angle. At length it ran toward the iron gate and again hurled itself against the bars. Unable to escape as it wished, it stood looking at the old lady, its dappled hide twitching with nervous excitement.

  The men who had gathered in front of the gate were delighted with the diversion. They laughed loudly and made ribald remarks about the power of love at first sight and Hyman White's unsuspected prowess as a charmer. There was a tender smile on the old lady's face, and suddenly she unfastened the great catch on the iron gate. There came a sharp cry and a quick sentence from the little girl, but the old lady patted her cheek and spoke a dozen soft, reassuring words in reply. For a moment there was silence, then the little girl nodded her head and stood stolidly regarding her boots. At the child's nod, the old lady swung wide the gate and the little fawn instantly leaped out and ran across the muddy road, hurling itself into the arms of Hyman White.

  The soldiers crowded around him, trying to attract the fawn's attention, but it would not notice them: It would not move from the arms of Hyman White where it lay licking his cheek with its soft tongue, and gazing at him with loving, humid eyes.

  I stood with John McGill watching the picture. John was considerably affected. He turned to me and spoke softly: “How surer than our human reason is the simple instinct of the fawn. . . . There must be a beauty of soul in Hyman White, instantly apparent and compelling to the fawn, that escapes our duller senses.”

  I looked at Hymie White for a minute and saw a stocky, stolid lad, with heavy features and reddened face. His mouth was stained with grease from the soup which he had just eaten, and his nose dripped a little.

  “Maybe so, John,” I said. “Maybe so.”

  After a while word came down the line for us to stand by. We rose and collected our packs and our scattered mess-gear.

  Hyman White was still holding the little fawn in his arms, passing his hands lovingly over its soft, fat flanks. Finally he turned to Pierre Brockett, who was struggling into his marching-order.

  “Ask the old girl what she'll take for the fawn,” he said.

  Brockett stated the question and again there came a quick, terrified cry from the little girl, but the old lady smiled and shook her head.

  “Won't sell it,” said Pierre.

  Hymie walked regretfully across the road and put down the fawn beside the little girl. The fawn struggled and tried to free itself, but the little girl held it tightly in her arms. When Hymie had reached his place, and had thrown his rifle across his shoulder, the little girl burst into tears and spoke rapidly to the old lady. A moment later she released the fawn and it ran quickly to Hymie, again nuzzling his hand, and dancing around him.

  The old lady held up her arm for attention. The troops turned to regard her. She spoke rapidly for a few moments, and Brockett translated to the troops, who were already moving off. “She says that she would never sell the fawn—no, no! not for any amount of money! But since the brave soldier and the fawn love each other so dearly, her granddaughter gives it to him gladly!”

  The little girl took a step forward and spoke in a shrill treble. Then she stopped quickly, as if reproved, and looked at the muddy earth.

  “Take care of him! Take care of him!” said Pierre Brockett. Then he added: “She says the fawn is very gentle.”

  Hymie looked back for an instant and waved his hand to the old lady, and the little girl, but the old lady did not see him; she had commenced speaking again, with sweeping gestures that included, impartially, the soldiers, the rain soaked country-side and the dull sky. There were still tears in the eyes of the little girl, and she gazed longingly at the fawn. In her heart there was a hope that the fawn, at last, would come to its senses and return to her, but the fascinated creature skipped up and down the side of the muddy road, and did not once look back.

  The thin rain continued to fall. We walked in silence except for the occasional tinkle of a canteen and the monotonous sucking sound of many feet sinking and being withdrawn from the soft mud. Gradually the dark set in. Then Hymie lifted the fawn into his arms where it lay with its muzzle resting in the harness of his pack. When it was almost dark we reached the town where we were to sleep for the night. Roy Winters, our billeting sergeant, who had gone on before us, was waiting, and directed the company to its assigned space. When Hymie had got his squad all settled and had laid out his pack on the dry straw, he whistled to his fawn and went outside. I got up and followed him, and in the road in front of the billet, he spoke to me:

  “Where has Mike set up his galley?” he asked.

  “I don't know,” I said.

  He turned away and walked off, but I followed him at a short distance, dodging out of sight when he turned his head.

  He found Mike, in an old stable, his kitchen set up and a great fire roaring. Sidney Borgstead was peeling potatoes and dropping them into a dirty, smoke-encrusted bucket at his side.

  Hymie and the fawn entered the stable and I stood by the door, peering in, and listening to what they said.

  “Get out of here!” said Sergeant Olmstead irritably; “supper ain't ready for an hour yet.”

  “Sergeant,” said Hymie in a wheedling, placating voice, “I've got a proposition for you—just you and me.”

  “Yeah? What is it?” replied Mike, still suspicious.

  Hymie hesitated for a moment, somewhat embarrassed. The dappled fawn was exploring the dark recesses of the stable, stepping daintily back and forth in the red light from the fire, and pretending to be frightened at a brown leaf blowing slowly across the uneven floor.

  “Did you ever eat venison steaks?” he asked at last.

  Mike's ragged, slack mouth opened a little in surprise. “Hell, man— You don't mean you're going to—!” . . . He paused, slightly shocked at the idea.

  “I'm hungry,” said Hymie. Then he added: “It'll be just me and you, sergeant; what do you say?”

  “But say, you couldn't do that; not after the way the fawn took to you, and all. . . . ”

  “Sure I could. Why not?”

  Mike rubbed his lumpy nose for a time. Finally he said: “A stew would be better—a stew with onions and potatoes in it.”

  “That's up to you, Mike; whatever you say is all right with me.”

  Then Mike laughed, as if ashamed, and nodded his head.

  At Hymie's whistle the fawn turned quickly, and faced him. . . . The firelight gilded the soft cream of its throat and turned to dark copper the gray markings on its flanks. Its sweet brown eyes were bright with love as i
t ran quickly to Hymie White, and rubbed its nose against his knee, dancing about him.

  “Pass me that breadknife!” said Hymie to Mike Olmstead.

  PRIVATE ROBERT ARMSTRONG

  THE curtains parted and a secretary in a tailor-made uniform came onto the stage. Behind him we could see the orchestra, seated in a semi-circle, tuning their instruments. The secretary bowed to us and smiled. “Oh, I know soldiers hate speech making,” he said, “but I have been delegated to make you an address of welcome, so I suppose I must go ahead and do my darnedest!” He laughed delicately and the men, after looking at each other, laughed too. There was an irregular clapping of hands. When it died, the secretary continued.

  “I'm sure you will agree that this is the strangest dance you ever attended. At first we wondered how to give a dance at all without members of the fair sex present. Some of the organization were in favor of inviting local girls, but I'm glad to say that idea was overruled: We felt that was not fair to you fine young men.” The secretary's voice became grave. “I'm sure you know what I mean . . . fellows!” There was silence for a moment, and then the secretary shook his head a couple of times and went on.

  “Finally somebody had a happy thought and suggested that we invite boys from the various church homes and dress them up in women's costumes, thus preserving the element of exercise, and at the same time eliminating the more objectionable features of the dance.”

  The men looked at each other sheepishly. A few of us began to move toward the door, but the secretary stopped us. “But wait!” he said, holding up his hand for silence. “We have another surprise for you!—Two of the ‘girls’ present will really be girls! They have come all the way from the canteen in Coblenz, and their presence lends an added charm to the occasion.”

  Again the secretary smiled and showed his gleaming teeth. Then the folding doors to the right opened and the female impersonators entered. They were dressed in a variety of fancy costumes, but Pierretes and Highland Lassies predominated. They stood in the center of the room and stared at the soldiers who lined the walls, and who, in turn, stared at them.

  The secretary came back upon the stage and clapped his hands. “Fellows!—Fellows! Get into the spirit of the occasion, please!—No introductions are necessary, I assure you!”

  Coming back that night Jim Dunning spoke suddenly, as if something had just occurred to him. “Say, did any of you guys run across the canteen dames the secretary mentioned?”

  Frank Halligan spoke up. “I didn't dance with them, but they were those two who sat over by the palms all evening.”

  “Is that who they were?” asked Jim in surprise. “Well, that's rich; that sure is a good one on me.—I thought those two were a couple of mule skinners from Headquarters company!”

  PRIVATE CHRISTIAN VAN OSTEN

  IT was the Fourth of July following the Armistice, and early that morning Mrs. Steiner called at the hospital. She and her husband were in Paris buying for their chain of department stores and they wanted to entertain three American soldiers in honor of the day. . . . “We want you to send soldiers wounded in action,” she kept repeating to the head nurse, “but nothing gruesome, you understand: nothing really revolting or gruesome! . . . ” So the nurse selected a fellow from the First Engineers called “Bunny,” a man from the Rainbow Division named Towner, and myself.

  We were ready when the automobile came by for us, and a little later we were in Mr. Steiner's suite at the Ritz. He was a nervous, bald-headed little man and he kept hopping about like a bird. “We were afraid you boys might be timid about ordering expensive dishes, and try to let us off too easy, so dinner has already been ordered,” he said. Nobody answered, so Mr. Steiner continued, rubbing his hands together. “Soak me good, boys!—I may not be the richest man in the United States, but I can stand a little gouging, I guess!”

  “Adolph!” said Mrs. Steiner laughing and shaking her head; “Adolph! Don't be always talking about money.”

  “Well, it's true, ain't it?” asked Mr. Steiner. “I'm a rich man; why should I try to hide it?”

  A little later two waiters brought up the dinner and began to serve it. “Lift up your plates,” said Mr. Steiner, “and see what Santa Claus put in your stocking.”

  There was a fifty dollar bill under each plate. “Oh, say, now,” said Bunny. “I can't really take this! . . . ” “Take it and put it in your pocket quick,” said Mrs. Steiner, winking; “there's plenty more where that came from!”

  The dinner was excellent, and as each course was served Mr. Steiner told us what that individual item had cost him. “I don't begrudge it, though,” he repeated; “I want you boys to have the very best of everything to-day. You've been through hell for us folks back home, and I say there's nothing too good for you now!”

  At last dinner was over and we were having liquers. “How about a cigar?” asked Mr. Steiner. Bunny and I said we'd rather smoke a cigarette, but Towner accepted. Mr. Steiner called the waiter and told him to go to the adjoining room and fetch the box of cigars he would find on the writing desk. The waiter did so, and a moment later he was offering the box to Towner. Towner took one, and was just about to bite off the end, when Mr. Steiner stopped him excitedly. “No!—No!” he shouted angrily at the waiter.—“That's the wrong box!” Towner returned the cigar and Mr. Steiner came over and took the box from the waiter. “Get the other box,” he said; “the one on the writing desk, like I told you!”

  Then he turned to Towner, tapping the box against his palm. “These cigars are made especially for me,” he said in explanation. “You can't buy them in a shop.”

  “Adolph!” said Mrs. Steiner quickly. “Why, Adolph!”

  Mr. Steiner began to look ashamed. “It's not the fact that those cigars retail for a dollar and fifty cents each,” he said apologetically; “that's got nothing to do with it at all. But you see I've got so I can't smoke anything else, and I only got three boxes left to last me until I get back to the States. . . . ” He put his hand on Towner's shoulder. “You understand my position in the matter, don't you?”

  Towner said sure, he understood perfectly, and that he'd just as soon have a cigar out of the other box. He said it didn't make a particle of difference to him one way or the other.

  PRIVATE ALBERT HAYES

  IN addition to the chocolate and cigarettes which were sold to us at three times their regular value, the canteen put in a line of sweaters and knitted socks. It was cold in the trenches and I wanted one of the sweaters to wear next to my skin to keep me warm at nights. I picked out a yellow one because it looked comfortable, and paid the canteen ten dollars for it. After I got back to my billet, and was examining it closely, I discovered there was a tiny pocket knitted in the bottom of the sweater and that a piece of paper had been tucked into it. Here's what I read:

  “I am a poor old woman, seventy-two years old, who lives at the poor farm, but I want to do something for the soldier boys, like everybody else, so I made this sweater and I am turning it over to the Ladies Aid to be sent to some soldier who takes cold easy. Please excuse bad knitting and bad writing. If you get a cold on your chest take a dose of cooking soda and rub it with mutton suet and turpentine mixed and don't get your feet wet if you can help it. I used to be a great hand to knit but now I am almost blind. I hope a poor boy gets this sweater. It's not a very good one but I have put my love in every stitch and that's something that can't be bought or sold.

  “Your obedient servant,

  “(Mrs.) MARY L. SAMFORD.

  “P.S. Don't forget to say your prayers at night and please write regularly to your dear mother.”

  PRIVATE ANDREW LURTON

  THEY saw from my service record book that I had been a court reporter on the outside, so they ordered me up to Regimental where Lieutenant Fairbrother, acting as Judge Advocate, was prosecuting General Courts.

  On Monday a kid from my company named Ben Hunzinger got fifteen years hard labor for deserting in the face of the enemy, and a long talk from Mr. Fairbrothe
r about justice tempered with mercy. On Tuesday a man from the First Battalion was awarded five years for leaving his post, thirty kilometers behind the lines, in order to warm his feet in the bunk house. On Wednesday it was a man named Pinckney who had gone nuts, after Soissons, and shot himself in the foot. He got eight and one-half years. . . . Why exactly eight years and six months?—I've never been able to figure that out. . . .

  Then, on Thursday and Friday we had a big, frontpage case. A sergeant named Vindt and a private named Neidlinger were accused of certain acts together and were sentenced, on the unsupported word of a sergeant, getting the limit that the court martial manual permitted. Fairbrother made another long speech—that lad will speak at the drop of a hat—about how Vindt and Neidlinger were blots on American citizenship, the flag, the home, etc., etc. He regretted he could not, by law, order them shot like dogs. I took it all down. . . . “I had no idea that such things actually existed!” he kept repeating in his fine, mellow voice. . . . (Well, you'd better go see your old nursie when you get home and ask her a few questions, I thought.)

  But the funniest case of all was reserved for Saturday. The man on trial was named Louis de Lessio. He had been sent back to an officers’ training school, in the rear, but he hadn't got his bars, and for some reason or other he was returned to the company. Sergeant Donohoe, it seemed, had ordered him to go on a working party to repair roads, and reported later to Captain Matlock that de Lessio had refused to go, saying: “To hell with you and Fishmouth Terry!—I don't intend soldiering until they send me my commission.”