Twenty-Three and a Half Hours' Leave/Chapter 3

by Mary Roberts Rinehart

 

III

BUT tragedy had marked Sergeant Gray for its own. At reveille he rolled over, yawned and without lifting himself reached up to the pocket of his blouse and retrieved his whistle.

He blew it and shouted as usual: “R-r-roll out, you dirty horsemen! R-r-roll out!”

Then, arms under his head, he lay and dreamed. Round the day to come he wove little fantasies of the new uniform, and money in his pocket, and twenty-three and a half hours' leave, and—the girl in the little car. His pass he had already secured through the top sergeant. It had been, with others on the pass list, O.K'd by the captain and re-O.K'd by the military police. At ten-thirty that morning Sergeant Gray would be a free man.

He made a huge breakfast, and careful inspection showed the eye greatly improved. And he whistled blithely while laying out his things for the official inspection, comparing his belongings carefully with a list in his hand. Nothing was to go wrong that day, nothing mar the perfection of it or curtail his leave.

But he failed to count the camp quartermaster; and that Destiny, which had taken him in hand forty-eight hours ago, was making of him her toy.

Now camp quartermasters are but human. They have their good days and their bad, and sometimes it rather gets on their nerves, the eternal examining and determining, for instance, that every man of perhaps thirty thousand possesses in perfect condition:

• 2 breeches, O. D. wool, prs.
• 2 coats, O. D. wool.
• 1 overcoat, O. D. wool.
• 1 slicker.
• 1 hat.
• 1 cord (cavalry, infantry, artillery)
• 3 undershirts, cotton.
• 3 underbreeches, cotton, prs.
• 5 socks, light wool, prs.
• 5 shirts, flannel, O. D.
• 2 shoes, field, prs.

Sergeant Gray's Destiny, working by devious ways, had given the camp inspector a headache, a bad breakfast, a shirt lost by the laundry and a wigging by somebody or other. Into the bargain it was a fine day for golf and here he was looking over breeches, O. D. wool, pairs, two; and so on.

Into the barracks then came fate in the shape of the camp inspector, military of figure and militant of disposition, to count the pins for shelter halves, for instance, and generally to do anything but swing a golf club, as his heart desired. The men lined up by their equipment and the inspector went down the line. And he opened, by evil chance, Sergeant Gray's condiment can and found the space-to-let notice inside.

He looked at it, and then he looked at the tall sergeant. Now to save all he could of his twenty-three and a half hours' leave Sergeant Gray had put on his new uniform, which was against the rules. He had obeyed the regulations exactly as to his hat cord, whistle, collar insignia, buttons and shoes. Otherwise from his healthy skin to his putties he wore not a single issue article.

The second mess sergeant eying him before inspection had warned him.

“You'll get into trouble with that outfit, Gray,” he had said. And Gray had replied that if he did it would be his trouble.

“Possibly,” had been the second mess sergeant's comment. “But if you put him in a bad humour and get him started—there'll be hell to pay.”

And now there was to be hell to pay. And the inspector, who might have been expected to walk in one door and out another but did not, stood off and surveyed him coldly.

“Issue uniform?” he demanded.

“N-no, sir.”

“Take it off”

Sergeant Gray obeyed. Once off, the full extent of his iniquity, as to his undershirt, underbreeches and socks, was revealed.

“Scrap the clothing this man is wearing,” ordered the inspector. And to Sergeant Gray: “Show me your issue uniforms.”

Now the sergeant was hard on clothing, and particularly on breeches. Also he had given one uniform to Watt, the cook. The single one he was able to produce was badly worn; so badly, indeed, that the camp inspector with his two hands tore the breeches apart, at a vital spot, and flung them on the floor. Something in Sergeant Gray's breast seemed to tear also and sink to the floor.

“Scrap this one also,” ordered the camp inspector.

“Sir——” ventured Sergeant Gray desperately.

“IF A MAN FROM THE HEADQUARTERS TROOP OVERSTAYS HIS LEAVE, WHAT HAPPENS TO HIM, UNCLE JIMMY?” See page 76

But the camp inspector had discovered something, namely: That the issue uniforms of the Headquarters Troop of the ——th Division were of poor material. Slowly and carefully he went through the lot. Sharply and decisively, at the end, he gave his orders.

“Scrap every uniform in the troop,” he said, “and send this order to the camp quartermaster.”

In ten minutes one hundred and ninety-five men stood to attention in their undergarments, and in the center of each squad room lay a great heap of discarded khaki.

“Leaving us rather stripped, sir,” ventured the captain.

“They've got their slickers,” curtly observed fate; “and the quartermaster will fix you up all right.”

He went out. Jove, what a day for golf!

“Sergeant!” called the captain.

He avoided the baleful eyes of his men and looked out of a window. He was rather young and terribly afraid he would laugh.

The supply sergeant, thus called, came forward and saluted. He was a queer figure in his woolens, and the captain coughed to recover his voice.

“Put—put on your slicker,” he said, “and carry this order to the camp quartermaster. And hurry!”

Now all the balance of this story rests on that order to hurry, for it came about that the supply sergeant, running, put his toe under the edge of a board and fell heavily, and a military policeman, discovering thus that the sergeant wore no breeches, placed him immediately under arrest.

“Oh, very well,” said the supply sergeant politely; and put the order in his slicker pocket. If they chose to arrest a man for a thing he couldn't help let them do it. He didn't absolutely know what was in the order and if he could sit in the bull pen the troop could sit in its underwear. It was nothing whatever to him.

He grinned malevolently, however, when he saw the captain and the two lieutenants of the troop leaving camp in a machine in the direction of the city.

“All right,” he said to himself. “We'll see something later, that's all. The old boy will be crazy about this.”

The old boy being the general.

In the barracks black despair was in Sergeant Gray's heart. He made a wild effort to retrieve his new uniform from the heap which was to be carried out and burned, but the troop were a unit against him.

“Aw, keep still!” they said in effect. “You got us into this, and you'll stick it out with us.”

“I've got leave, fellows,” he appealed to the other noncoms. “I've got an engagement too.”

“We know. To breakfast with the general,” sneered the stable sergeant. “Well, you'd better send your regrets.”

At ten-fifteen the troop, having waited an hour, were growing uneasy, and Sergeant Gray was stationed at a window, watching three men in slickers tending a fire of mammoth proportions. At ten-thirty, going to a window in one of the two upper squad rooms, he made out a small car down the road, and a girl with a pink hat in it. There was no supply sergeant in sight.

At ten forty-five a scout patrol in slickers having been sent out reported the supply sergeant not in the camp quartermaster's office, as observed through a window, and the troop officers as having gone for the day.

Black despair, then, in a hundred and ninety-five hearts, but in no one of them such agony as in Sergeant Gray's. Clad in an army slicker he made a dozen abortive attempts to borrow a uniform from tall men in other companies, but inspection was on, and had commenced with the Headquarters Troop. Not a man dared to be found with less than “breeches, O. D. wool, prs., two.” And blouses the same.

At eleven o'clock with the glare of frenzy in his eyes Sergeant Gray put on a slicker, put his pass in his pocket and left the barracks. Outside the door he hesitated. The sun was gleaming from a hot sky, and there was no wind. The absence of wind, he felt, was in his favour. During his hurried walk toward the little car he was feeling in his mind for some excuse for the slicker, but he found himself beside the car before he had found anything to satisfy him.

“You are late,” said the girl severely.

“Awfully busy morning,” he explained. “Inspection and—er—all that. There's a lot to get ready,” he added mysteriously.

He was aware of her careful scrutiny, and he flushed guiltily. As for the girl, she seemed satisfied with what she saw. He was a gentleman, clearly. But a slicker!

“You'd better take that raincoat back,” she observed. “You won't need it. It's going to be clear and hot.”

“I guess I'll take it, anyhow.”

“You'll be checking it somewhere, and then forgetting to get it again.”

He was frightfully uneasy. She was the sort of girl who seemed bent on getting her own way. So he muttered something about having a cold, and she countered with a flat statement that he would get more if he dressed too warmly.

They had reached what amounted to an impasse when a small boy flung a card into the car.

“Don't bother about it,' said the girl as he stooped to get it. “I have one in my pocket for you.”

“Thanks, awfully,” said the sergeant, rather surprised. “What is it? A theatre ticket?”

She did not reply at once. He saw that they were passing the end of the trolley line and going on. He had a little thrill of mingled delight and uneasiness. He had had no plans particularly, except to see her again. His only program had been destroyed in the bonfire.

Suddenly she drew the little car up beside the road.

“Have you anything you want particularly to do to-day?” she asked.

“I was just going to play round.”

“Would you like to do a real service? A national service?”

“I seem to be doing it most of the time,” he observed with some bitterness.

“You said yesterday you were going to have your picture taken.”

Good heavens, was this marvel, this creature from another world, going to ask for his photograph?

“I would, but this eye——”

“See here,” she said briskly. “I want you to get your picture taken. I want it for a special reason. And I want you to go”—she felt in her pocket and pulled out a card—“I want you to go to this man.”

“I see,” he said, and took the card. “Friend of yours?”

“Certainly not!”

“Does he take good photographs?”

“I don't know. You might read the card.”

He read it carefully. It merely stated that J. M. Booth of a certain number on Twenty-Second Street made excellent photographs very cheap, filled rush orders for soldiers, and gave them a special discount. He even turned it over, but the other side was blank.

“L don't, get it, I guess,” he said at last. “What's the answer?”

“The more I see of army men the less imagination I find,” was her surprising reply. “I took that card last night to the—to an officer I know; and he was just like you. I hope you put more intelligence into your fighting than you do into other things. How many soldiers do you suppose have gone to that man?”

“Well, I'll be one, anyhow.”

He rose gallantly to the occasion.

“A good many hundred, probably. As each division comes in and gets leave they all run to get their pictures taken, don't they? And they want them by a certain time? Why? Because they're going to sail, of course.”

“There's no argument on my part.”

“But suppose that man's name isn't Booth? Suppose I told you he'd once been the court photographer at Vienna?”

Sergeant Gray whistled.

“Are you telling me that?”

“I am. My dressmaker is in the same building. She told me. He showed her a lot of photographs of the royal family.”

Every boy has longed at some period of his life to be a detective. Sergeant Gray suddenly felt the fine frenzy of the sleuth. But there was disappointment too.

“So that's why you picked me up last night?”

“Not at all. But it's why I came for you this morning.”

“Would you mind explaining that?”

“Not at all. I picked you up because I carry all the boys I can to the street car. But after we had talked I felt you would understand. Some of them wouldn't.”

Sergeant Gray at once put on the expression of one who understood perfectly. But happening to glance down, the better to reflect, he saw that the slicker had slid back an inch or so, revealing that amount of a knee that was not covered with khaki. He blushed furiously, but the girl's eyes were on the road ahead.”

“I do hope you'll help me out,” she was saying. “It wouldn't be of any use for me to go, you know. But I'll go with you. I'll be your sister if you don't mind.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to say that there were other relationships he would prefer, but he did not. She was not that sort of a girl. And he was uneasily aware, too, that her interest in him was purely academic. Not that he put it that way, of course.

“The one thing you mustn't do,” she warned him, “is to tell when you actually sail. I thought you might say that the submarine trouble has held up all sailings, and you're not going for a month.”

“All right,” he agreed.

“Just when do you sail?” she asked suddenly.

He was exceedingly troubled. He had no finesse, and here was a point-blank question. He answered it bluntly.

“Sorry. I can't tell you.”

“You're a good boy,” she said with approval. “I know anyhow, so it doesn't matter. I just wondered if you would tell.”

“You know a lot of things,” was his admiring comment.

Half an hour later he was following the girl into a dingy elevator. He was suffering the pangs of bitter disappointment, for on his observing that if the fellow tried to find out when the division was sailing he would throw him out of the window the girl had turned on him sharply.

“You'll do nothing of the kind,” she said. “You'll tell him what we've agreed on, and that's all.”

“All?” he had protested. “And let him get away with it?”

“We'll decide what to do later,” she had answered cryptically. And somehow he had felt that he had fallen in her estimation.

In the elevator she said out of a clear sky: “You'll have to take that raincoat off, of course.”

He swallowed nervously.

“Sure I will,' he replied. “But—look here, you don't mind if I ask you to stay out while I'm being done, do you? I—I'm funny about pictures. I don't like any one round. Queer thing,” he went on desperately, seeing her face. “Always been like that. I——”

“I didn't come here to see you have a photograph taken,” she replied coldly.

For the next half hour he did not see her. He was extremely busy.

J. M. Booth proved to be a slow worker. Sergeant Gray, who had been recently mixing with all races in the Army, was quick to see that he spoke fluent English with a slight burr.

“French, aren't you?” he asked genially while Mr. Booth shifted the scenery.

“Alsatian,” corroborated Mr. Booth. “But this is my country. I have even taken an American name. Now if you will remove the raincoat——”

Sergeant Gray moved a step nearer to him.

“Can't,” he explained in a low tone. “Nothing under it. You'll have to shoot as I am.”

“No uniform?'

“No uniform. What d'you think of a country that will send fellows to fight like that, eh?”

Mr. Booth's small black eyes peered at him suspiciously.

“Is it possible?” he demanded. “This great country, so rich, and—no uniforms.”

“Uniforms!” continued Sergeant Gray, beginning to enjoy himself hugely. “Why, say, we haven't anything! No guns worth the name, not enough shoes. Why, a fellow in my company's wearing two rights at this minute. And as for uniforms—why, I'1l tell you this—my whole company's going round to-day like this, slickers and nothing else.”

“Amazing!” commented Mr. Booth unctuously. “We hear of so much money being spent, and yet nothing to show for it.”

“Graft!” explained the sergeant in a very deep bass. “Graft, that's what it is!”

Mr. Booth seemed temporarily to forget that he was there to take a picture.

“But you—we will come out all right,” he observed, watching the sergeant closely. “We have so much. The Browning gun, now—do you know about that? It is wonderful, not so?”

“Wonderful?” queried the sergeant, feeling happier than he had for some time. “Well, I'm a machine gunner; and if we're to get anywhere we've got to do better than the Browning.” He had a second's uneasiness then, until he remembered that he wore no insignia. “It heats. It jams. It——” Here ended his knowledge of machine guns. “It's rotten, that's all.”

Mr. Booth was moistening his lips.

“It's sad news,” he observed. “I—but this Liberty motor—I understand it's a success.”

“You'd better not ask me about that,” said the sergeant gravely. “Ever since my brother went down——”

“Went down: Fell?”

“Aviation. Engine too heavy for the wings. Got up a hundred feet—first plane, you know, testing it out. And——”

He drew a long breath.

“I wonder,” said Mr. Booth, “if you would care for a little drink? I keep some here for the boys. The city's a dry place for soldiers. It'll cheer you up.”

“I'm off liquor.” It was the first truth he had spoken for some time, and it sounded strange to his ears. “Rotten food and all that. Can't drink. That's straight.”

It had not been lost on him that Mr. Booth was endeavoring to conceal a vast cheerfulness; also that his refusal to drink was unexpected.

“Better have the picture, old top,” he observed. “Better get this eye on the off side, hadn't you?”

For some five minutes Mr. Booth alternately disappeared under a black cloth and reappeared again. The sergeant felt that under a pretence of focusing he was being subjected to a close scrutiny, and bore himself carefully and well.

When at last it was over Mr. Booth put a question. “Want these in a hurry, I suppose?”

“Hurry? Why?”

“Most of the boys are just about to sail. They come in here and give me two days, three days. It is not enough.”

“Well, I can give you a month if you want it.”

“You're not going soon, then?”

“I should say not! Do you think Uncle Sam's going to trust any transports out with these German submarines about? I guess not!”

There was no question as to Mr. Booth's excitement now. His round face fairly twitched.

“But you cannot know that,” he said. “That is camp talk, eh?”

“Not on your life!' said the sergeant, and went closer to him. “I got a cousin in headquarters; and he saw the order from Washington.”

“What was the order? You remember it, eh?”

“All orders for troops to sail during month of June canceled,” lied the sergeant glibly. “Not likely to forget that, old top, with a month to play round in your dear old town.”

He was filled with admiration of himself. And under that admiration was swelling and growing a great loathing for the creature before him. He would fill him with lies as full as he would hold. And then he would get him. But he would consult the girl about that. She had forbidden violence, but when she knew the facts——

He gave his name and put down a deposit.

“You are sure you are in no hurry?” asked Mr. Booth, scrutinising him carefully.

“I wish I was as sure of a uniform.”

The girl was waiting, and together they went down to the street. Though her eyes were eager she asked no questions. She preceded Sergeant Gray to the little car and got in. And suddenly a chill struck to the sergeant's heart.

On the pavement, eying him with cold and glittering eyes, were the stable sergeant, the troop mess sergeant, the second mess sergeant and two corporals. Like himself they wore slickers to cover certain deficiencies, and unlike him they wore an expression of cold and calculating deviltry.

“Hello!” they said, and surrounded him. “Having a good time?”

He cast an agonised glance at the car. The girl was looking ahead.

“Pretty fair,” he replied; and calculated the distance to the car.

“We've been keeping an eye open for you,” said the stable sergeant, stepping between him and the car. “We want to have a word with you.”

“I'll meet you somewhere.” There was pleading in his voice. “Anywhere you say, in an hour.” Their faces were cold and unrelenting. “In a half hour, then.”

“What we've got to do won't wait,” observed the stable sergeant. “How do you think we like going about like this anyhow? Our only chance to have a time, and going round like a lot of lunatics. We warned you, didn't we? We——”

Sergeant Gray knew what was coming. He had known it with deadly certainty from the moment he saw that menacing group, cold of eye but hot of face. And strong as he was he was no match for five of them, hardened with months of training and infuriated with outrage.

“I'm with a young lady, fellows,” he pleaded. “Don't make a row here. If you'll only wait——”

“Oh, there won't be any row,” observed the stable sergeant. “You take off that slicker, that's all.”

“Not here! For heaven's sake, fellows, not on the street! I tell you I've got a girl with me. A nice girl. A——”

The stable sergeant hesitated and glanced toward the car.

“All right,” he said, “But we're going to take that slicker back to camp. We promised the troop. You can step inside that door. I guess that's satisfactory?”

He glanced at the group, which nodded grimly.

For an instant Sergeant Gray was tempted to run and chance it, but the girl had turned her head and was watching them curiously. Hope died in him. He could neither run nor fight. And the group closed in on him.

“'Bout face—march!” said the stable sergeant.

And he marched.

Inside the hallway, behind the elevator, however, he turned loose with his fists. He fought desperately, using his long arms with accuracy and precision. One of the corporals went down first. The second mess sergeant followed him. But the result was inevitable. Inside of three minutes the girl saw the little group returning to the street. One corporal held a handkerchief to his lip, and the first mess sergeant was holding together a slicker which had no longer any clasps. The stable sergeant, however, was calm and happy. He carried a slicker over his arm.

“Sergeant Gray's compliments, miss,” he said, saluting. Then, as an afterthought of particular fiendishness: “And he will be engaged for some time. If you would take charge of this slicker he'll be much obliged to you.”

He saluted again, and the group swaggered down the street.

The girl sat in the car and looked after them. Then she glanced at the slicker, and a little frown gathered between her eyes. Had he, against her orders, gone back to deal with Mr. Booth alone? She was mystified and not a little indignant, and when she started the car again it was with a jerk of irritation.

Inside the hallway, behind the elevator, cursed and raged Sergeant Gray. At every step in the doorway he shook with apprehension. Behind him stretched a wooden staircase, toward which he cast agonised eyes. The elevator came down, discharged its passengers, filled again and went up. Outside in the brilliant street thousands of feet passed, carrying people fully clothed and entitled to a place in the sun. Momentarily he expected the climax of his wretchedness—that the girl would tire of waiting and come into the building. He plucked up courage after a time to peer round the corner of the elevator. The car was gone.

“What'll she think of me?” he groaned.

Wild schemes of revenge surged in him. Murder with torture was among them. And always while he cursed and planned his eyes were on the staircase behind him.

Came a time, however, when the elevator descended empty, and the elderly man on the stool inside prepared to read a newspaper. He was startled by a husky whisper just beneath his left ear.

“Say, come here a minute, will you?”

He turned. Through the grille beside him a desperate face with one black eye was staring at him.

“Come here yourself,” he returned uneasily.

With a wild rush the owner of the face catapulted into the elevator and closed the grating. Then he turned and faced him.

“Run me up, quick!”

“Good God!” said the elevator man.

There were steps in the entrance. With a frenzied gesture Sergeant Gray, of the Headquarters Troop of the ——th Division, gave a pull at the lever. The car descended with a jerk.

“Leggo that thing,” said the elevator man, now wildly terrified. “Want to shoot down into the subway?”

Thoroughly frenzied, Sergeant Gray puled the lever the other way. The car stopped, trembled, ascended. For a moment two stenographers waiting on the ground floor had a vision of a strange figure in undershirt, cotton, one, and nether garments to match, surmounted by a distorted face, passing on its way to the upper floors.

Sergeant Gray surrendered the lever, and ran a trembling hand across his forehead.

“You've got to hide me somewhere,” he shouted. “Look at me!”

“I see you,” said the elevator man. “Y'ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

“You've got to hide me,” insisted Sergeant Gray; “and then you've got to go out and buy me some clothes.”

They had reached the top floor, and the car had stopped.

I'll tell you later. You can get me a pair of pants somewhere, can't you?”

There was pleading in his voice. Almost tears. But the tears were of rage.

“I'll lose my job if I leave this car,” observed the elevator man. He had recovered from his fright, and besides he had recognised the boy's service hat.

“Soldier, aren't you?”

“Yes. Look here, old man, I'm in a devil of a mess. Lot of our fellows, met them outside—it's a joke. Ill joke them!” he added vindictively.

“Some fellows got a queer idea of humour,” observed the elevator man. “I might send out for you. Got any money?”

The full depth of his helplessness struck Sergeant Gray then and turned him cold. His money, thirty-nine dollars and sixteen cents, was in the slicker.

“They took my money too.”

The elevator man's face grew not less interested but more suspicious.

“Why don't you get a good story while you're at it?” he demanded. “Looks like you're running away from something.”

“Great heavens, I should think I am!”

“You fellows,” observed the elevator man, “think you can come to this town and raise hell and then pull some soldier stuff and get out of it. Well, you haven't any effect on me.”

The buzzer in the cage had been ringing insistently.

I'll have to go down. Crawl out, son.”

“Crawl out! Where to?”

“Don't know. Can't let you in an office. You may find some place.” He threw open the door. “Out with you!” he commanded. “I'll look you up later.”

“Run me to the cellar,” gasped Sergeant Gray.

“Tailor's shop there. Full of girls.”

With a hoarse imprecation Sergeant Gray left the elevator and scuttled down the hallway. To his maddened ears the place was full of sounds, of voices inside doorways and about to emerge, of footsteps, of hideous laughter. He had wild visions of finding a window and a roof, even of jumping off it. Then—he saw on a door the name of J. M. Booth, Photographer; and hope leaped in his heart.

He opened the door cautiously and peered within. All was silent. On the table in the reception room lay still open the album with which the girl had amused herself while she waited, and over couch—oh, joy supreme!—there was flung an Indian blanket. He caught it up and wrapped it about him; and the madness left him. Such as it was, he was clothed.

Still cautiously, however, he advanced to the studio. All was quiet there, but beyond he could hear water running, and the careful handling of photographers' plates. Mr. Booth, erstwhile of Vienna, was within and busy. It irked the sergeant profoundly that to such unworthy refuge he was driven for shelter, but he squared his shoulders and advanced. Then suddenly he heard footsteps in the outer room, footsteps that advanced deliberately and relentlessly.

Wild fear shook him again. He looked round him frantically, and then sought refuge. In a corner behind a piece of scenery which was intended to show the sitter in an Italian garden, Sergeant Gray of the ——th Division sought shameful sanctuary.

 

Somewhat later in the day the general, having a broiled squab and mushrooms under glass in a window at the best restaurant in the city, put on his glasses and looked out over the surging tide in the brilliant sunlight of the street. Just opposite him, moving sedately, was a group of soldiers.

“I wish you'd tell me,” said the general testily to the aide-de-camp whose particular joy it was to lunch with him, “'what the deuce those fellows are doing in slickers on a day like this.”

“No accounting for the vagaries of enlisted men, sir,” returned the aide, ordering a demé-tasse.