One of Ours, Willa Cather [feel good fiction books txt] 📗

rear truck; he was going to get the V.C. for sleeping. More giggles.

No, they hadn’t any idea where they were going; of course, the officers knew, but artillery officers never told anything. What was this country like, anyhow? They were new to this part, had just come down from Verdun.

Claude said he had a friend in the air service up there; did they happen to know anything about Victor Morse?

Morse, the American ace? Hadn’t he heard? Why, that got into the London papers. Morse was shot down inside the Hun line three weeks ago. It was a brilliant affair. He was chased by eight Boche planes, brought down three of them, put the rest to flight, and was making for base, when they turned and got him. His machine came down in flames and he jumped, fell a thousand feet or more.

“Then I suppose he never got his leave?” Claude asked.

They didn’t know. He got a fine citation.

The men settled down to wait for the weather to improve or the night to pass. Some of them fell into a doze, but Claude felt wide awake. He was wondering about the flat in Chelsea; whether the heavy-eyed beauty had been very sorry, or whether she was playing “Roses of Picardy” for other young officers. He thought mournfully that he would never go to London now. He had quite counted on meeting Victor there some day, after the Kaiser had been properly disposed of. He had really liked Victor. There was something about that fellow⁠ ⁠… a sort of debauched baby, he was, who went seeking his enemy in the clouds. What other age could have produced such a figure? That was one of the things about this war; it took a little fellow from a little town, gave him an air and a swagger, a life like a movie-film⁠—and then a death like the rebel angels.

A man like Gerhardt, for instance, had always lived in a more or less rose-colored world; he belonged over here, really. How could he know what hard moulds and crusts the big guns had broken open on the other side of the sea? Who could ever make him understand how far it was from the strawberry bed and the glass cage in the bank, to the sky-roads over Verdun?

By three o’clock the rain had stopped. Claude and Hicks set off again, accompanied by one of the gun team who was going back to get help for their tractor. As it began to grow light, the two Americans wondered more and more at the extremely youthful appearance of their companion. When they stopped at a shell-hole and washed the mud from their faces, the English boy, with his helmet off and the weather stains removed, showed a countenance of adolescent freshness, almost girlish; cheeks like pink apples, yellow curls above his forehead, long, soft lashes.

“You haven’t been over very long, have you?” Claude asked in a fatherly tone, as they took the road again.

“I came out in ’sixteen. I was formerly in the infantry.”

The Americans liked to hear him talk; he spoke very quickly, in a high, piping voice.

“How did you come to change?”

“Oh, I belonged to one of the Pal Battalions, and we got cut to pieces. When I came out of hospital, I thought I’d try another branch of the service, seeing my pals were gone.”

“Now, just what is a Pal Battalion?” drawled Hicks. He hated all English words he didn’t understand, though he didn’t mind French ones in the least.

“Fellows who signed up together from school,” the lad piped.

Hicks glanced at Claude. They both thought this boy ought to be in school for some time yet, and wondered what he looked like when he first came over.

“And you got cut up, you say?” he asked sympathetically.

“Yes, on the Somme. We had rotten luck. We were sent over to take a trench and couldn’t. We didn’t even get to the wire. The Hun was so well prepared that time, we couldn’t manage it. We went over a thousand, and we came back seventeen.”

“A hundred and seventeen?”

“No, seventeen.”

Hicks whistled and again exchanged looks with Claude. They could neither of them doubt him. There was something very unpleasant about the idea of a thousand fresh-faced schoolboys being sent out against the guns. “It must have been a fool order,” he commented. “Suppose there was some mistake at Headquarters?”

“Oh, no, Headquarters knew what it was about! We’d have taken it, if we’d had any sort of luck. But the Hun happened to be full of fight. His machine guns did for us.”

“You were hit yourself?” Claude asked him.

“In the leg. He was popping away at me all the while, but I wriggled back on my tummy. When I came out of the hospital my leg wasn’t strong, and there’s less marching in the artillery.

“I should think you’d have had about enough.”

“Oh, a fellow can’t stay out after all his chums have been killed! He’d think about it all the time, you know,” the boy replied in his clear treble.

Claude and Hicks got into Headquarters just as the cooks were turning out to build their fires. One of the Corporals took them to the officers’ bath⁠—a shed with big tin tubs, and carried away their uniforms to dry them in the kitchen. It would be an hour before the officers would be about, he said, and in the meantime he would manage to get clean shirts and socks for them.

“Say, Lieutenant,” Hicks brought out as he was rubbing himself down with a real bath towel, “I don’t want to hear any more about those Pal Battalions, do you? It gets my goat. So long as we were going to get into this, we might have been a little more previous. I hate to feel small.”

“Guess we’ll have to take our medicine,” Claude said dryly, “There wasn’t anywhere to duck, was there? I felt like it. Nice little kid. I don’t believe American boys ever seem as young as