Twenty-Three and a Half Hours' Leave/Chapter 5
V
EARLY that afternoon the stable sergeant of the Headquarters Troop coming out of divisional headquarters saw the general approaching in a car much too small for him. Beside him sat an aide, who drove wisely but not too well. On the rumble seat were a girl, and a youth in civilian clothes and a service hat. They were in deep, absorbing conversation.
The stable sergeant came stiffly to the salute, and remained at it, the general giving no evidence of seeing him and returning it. Then—the stable sergeant went pale under his tan, for the civilian emerging from the rear of the machine, and strangely but sufficiently clad, was one Sergeant Gray of the Headquarters Troop.
As if this had not been enough he watched the same Sergeant Gray assist to alight the young lady of yesterday, and it gave no peace to the stable sergeant's turbulent soul to behold that young lady giving the general a patronising pat and then a kiss.
“Great Scott!” said the stable sergeant feebly.
But there was more to come, for Sergeant Gray had spied his enemy and was minded to have official confirmation of a certain fact. Before the stable sergeant's incredulous eyes he beheld Gray, of the undergarments, gauze, et cetera, advance to the general and salute, and then remark in a very distinct tone:
“It was very kind of you, sir, to ask me to breakfast.”
The general looked about under his gray eyebrows and perceived a situation.
“Not at all,” he replied in an equally distinct voice. “Glad you liked my bran muffins.”
The stable sergeant, who was carrying a saddle, dropped it. Had he not been stooping he would have observed something very like a wink on the most military countenance in America. It was directed at Tommy.
“Good-by, Sergeant Gray,” said the pretty girl holding out her hand. “I—I think you are the bravest person! And you will write, won't you?”
“I wish I was as sure of my commission.”
The stable sergeant swallowed hard.
“But you'll get that now, of course. I'll go right in and tell Uncle Jimmy.”
“Oh, I say!” protested Sergeant Gray. “You—you mustn't do that, you know.”
“Aw, rats!” muttered the stable sergeant; and clutching the saddle furiously moved away. Up the road he met a military policeman, and stopped him.
“Better grab that fellow.” He indicated Sergeant Gray behind him, now shamelessly holding the hand of the general's niece.
“Why?”
“Awol,” replied the stable sergeant darkly—being military brevity for absent without leave. “And you might observe,” he added, “that he isn't in uniform.”
The girl got into the little car. Hat in hand, eyes full of many things he dared not put into words, Sergeant Gray of the Headquarters Troop of the th Division watched her start the car, smile into his eyes and move away. He came to at a touch on his arm.
“What're you doing in that outfit” demanded the M. P. sharply.
“Having an acute attack of heart trouble, if you want to know,” said the sergeant, staring after the little car.
“Have to arrest you.”
“Oh, go to it!” said the sergeant blithely. “I'm used to it now. Look here,” he added, “your name's not Joe, by any chance?”
“You know my name,” said the M. P. sourly.
“Sorry,” reflected the sergeant. “Don't mind if I call you Joe, do you? Always like the men who arrest me to be called Joe. It's lucky.”
He stopped and looked back; the little car was almost out of sight.
“All right, Joe, old top!” he said blithely. And he sang in a deep bass
“Where do we go from here, boys?
Where do we go from here?
All the way from Broadway to the
Jersey City pier.”
His voice died away. In his eyes there was suddenly that curious blend of hope and sadness which shines from the faces of those who love and, loving, must go away to war.
“Wait a minute, Joe,” he said.
And, turning, looked back again. The little car was still in sight, and the girl, standing up in it, waved her hand.
