CHAPTER I Going in Again

PLUCK and perseverance are American characteristics; in all the world there are none superior. Perhaps more than to anything else the physical advancements of our country have been due to the tremendous desire and the will to go forward, to gain, to consummate. Almost everything that we as a people have set our hearts upon we have achieved beyond the expectations of ourselves and other peoples.

The building of the Panama Canal, the discovery of the North Pole, the results attained at the modern Olympic games are but minor instances of our determination; the accumulative values of inventions and their commercialism, the acquiring of vast wealth and well being express this more generally.

And the great World War has given additional evidence of the kind of stuff that goes along with American brawn and bravery; there was shown more than mere momentary force. The fighter par excellence is he who stays in the battle until every ounce of energy he possesses is expended, if necessary, to beat his opponent and goes back for more and more punishment, with the determination to give more than he gets. Such a fighter and of such fighters the American Army proved itself to be, collectively and with wondrously few exceptions individually; it was this quality, as much as anything else, that caused the foe to respect the prowess of the Yanks, to make way before them and to surrender often when there was no immediate need for it.

Despite much luxury and pleasure, much easy living, much indolence of a kind, the fighting stamina has been instilled into the American youth; history, sports, teaching, habits of life, all have conspired to make him the kind of man to want to smash the would-be bully and rough fully as hard as he deserves. And then, when injustice looks like coming back, to go in and smash some more.

Brighton Academy, in common with other high-grade schools, in the classrooms and on the athletic field, wisely implanted qualities of fairness and of determination into its boys. Imbued thus were the lads who had, from the halls of Old Brighton, gone forth to do and to die for their country against Germany, the thug nation.

Happy, then, was he who could go back after having been invalided home—and there were many, indeed, who gloried in it. One such, wearing the chevrons of a lieutenant of infantry, had come from Brighton Academy and had served with bravery and distinction in the trenches. He stood on the deck of the transport and gazed through moist eyes at the receding coast of the land of the free, for the most part seeing but one figure, that of a one-legged lad waving him a sad farewell.

“Poor old Roy! It’s the first time I’ve really seen him so sick at heart as to show it keenly. But who can blame him? He’d rather fight than eat and now he’s got to sit by and see us go without him.” So thought the youth on the upper deck, as he long held up his fluttering handkerchief.

And then, after not many days of glorious, semi-savage anticipation, there followed disembarkation at an obscure port of France and our returning hero, with many others, sauntered to the billets, laughing, some singing: “Where do We Go from Here?” and “There’ll be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight.” Suddenly the young officer’s arm was seized, he was whirled about and found himself face to face with another lad, evidently a little younger, but quite as tall, with the accustomed military bearing, but upon his khaki sleeve reposed the familiar and much loved insignia of the Red Cross.

“Herb Whitcomb, or I’m a shad! You old dear, you! But ain’t it good to run smack into a son-of-a-gun from Old Brighton? And what now and where are you——?”

“You’ve got me, comrade—” the Lieutenant began, eyeing the speaker narrowly for a moment, his brows set in a puzzled wrinkle as the other grinned at the very idea of not being recognized by an old friend and classmate. Herbert, in turn, suddenly grabbed him, seizing him by the shoulders and chuckling with real delight.

“Don—Don Richards, by the wild, whistling wizard! You boy! Glory, but I’m glad to see you! But say, man——”

“Say it—that I’ve changed a bit. Must have for you not to have known me.” Don fell into step with Herbert.

“Yes, you have indeed! Sun-dyed like a pirate and older, somehow. But I knew that grin. The great thing about it is that you’re alive and looking fit as a fiddle. Why, man, we heard you’d been wounded past recovery—hit with a shrapnel.”

“Shrapnel all right, but it was uncommonly kind to me. Piece just went through my left shoulder and now it’s only a little stiff at times. Clem Stapley and I were together out there beyond Bouresches; the Belleau Wood scrap. He was hurt badly and I was trying to bring him in.” Don spoke mere facts; not with boastfulness.

“Red Cross work; we heard that, too. Clem pulled through; didn’t he?” the lieutenant questioned.

“Yes, just, but he won’t be good enough to join in again. Went back home last ship, three days ago. I didn’t go because Major Little came after me to serve again.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Well, I guess I ought to. It’s got under my skin, but I’d like to get a glimpse of the good old U. S. Came off this boat; didn’t you? Don asked.”

“Just landed. Going back to my company; can’t help it; it’s permeated my carcass, too, with the gas I got near Montdidier. Poor Roy Flynn, you know, lost a leg, but he wanted to come back, nevertheless. I’m billeting with this bunch of fellows. Where are you stopping?”

“Down here at a sort of little inn; jolly fine place, but expensive. Major Little sent Clem and me there. How about your bunking with me now? Then we’ll go back together. If I go on again I guess it will be in an auto and there’ll be room for you. They want me to report at the base somewhere southeast of Rheims. Where is your old command?”

The boys had turned aside from the khaki-clad procession, Donald conducting Herbert toward a side street that led to his inn. Several of the “Yanks” shouted words of friendly banter at the lieutenant, whom they had come to know and respect aboard ship.

“Hey, you scrapper! Don’t let the Red Cross get you this soon!” “Where you goin’, boy? Stay with the bon tons!” “Sure, we need your cheerful reminders of what the Heinies will do to us!”

It was long past the noon hour and the hungry boys ordered a meal; then began a long and minutely explanatory chat during which the affairs at Brighton, the pro-war sentiment in the United States, the retreat of the Germans and the American influence thereon were discussed with the vast interest that only those who had taken and expected again to take part in the conflict could so keenly feel. Presently a Red Cross messenger on a motorcycle came to seek young Richards.

“How about conveyance?” Don asked. “Major Little said not to bother with the roundabout on the crazy railroad; a car would make the direct run across in less time.”

“There are two new ambulances stored here that came in on the last freighter across. I have orders to turn one of the ambulances over to you if you wish,” the messenger said.

“Then I can deliver my reply to the Major in person, after I have dropped my friend here at general Army Headquarters. Let’s have your order. I’ll be on the road early in the morning and likely make the run by night.”