Dear Mother:—

It will be hard for me to hold myself to the systematic narrative of this last day, I do so wish to leap to the end and to tell you great news. But I will be firm.

I was up early this morning, as I so often am. There is always the distant cavalry bugle to rouse one; it blows first. Seeing the embers of our great fire still glowing in the dusk, I went there to warm myself, and stood there listening to the sounds from the still sleepy camp. Drowsy voices, a footfall here and there, the crackle of fire and the tinkle of pots at the cook tents. Even when reveille had blown there was still for several moments this sleep-drugged quiet, in the first light of dawn.

Then there blared out the music of the full brass band in the opening crash of “Hail, hail, the gang’s on deck!”

Silence no more. Yell upon yell, shout upon shout, cheer upon cheer—and for a space the brass could not be heard. The noise subsided to singing and to laughter, the music again held sway, and the camp, springing to its work in high spirits, was beginning on its last day. The last packing, the last mess together; then as the companies stood in line for the last march out, the band marched in and out of the company streets, playing to us for the last time, preceded by a score of howling dervishes, and followed by as many others, little Cupid (my second glimpse of him) struggling along in the rear. Then we were beginning our march, cheerful though on macadam, and though we had learned that once more we must skirmish, and so spoil the new spotlessness of our rifles. It was a lovely morning, hazy, but through the mist showing to the right a mountain with its lower sides glowing red. Not many miles to go, and we were glad as we covered each one; but at last we heard behind us the rifles of the cavalry, and turned to fight with them a rear-guard engagement.

There was an hour of it, first and last. It had its individual features, notably the tale of a squad which, after marching for some minutes under the point blank fire of our whole platoon, tried to outflank and attack us—but an umpire attended to them. Yet after all there must be sameness to my descriptions, and I will press on to the important matters.

We were deployed between two highways, one the main road from Cadyville, one running south of it. On account of our coming, various motorists had set out to meet us, and on the northern road were a number of cars, full of fluttering females. On the southern road stood but one. Now we were supposed to be retiring before a superior force; but their disposition offering an excellent chance to give them a jolt, our company was sent through the southern fields against their flank. There was much standing stubble and high weeds in the field through which we stole silently by rushes, Kirby behind us and urging us on, using only short blasts of his whistle as signals, and the vibrant tones of his penetrating voice. We were less than a hundred yards from the enemy and he had not discovered us; every man of us kept low to the ground, and never before had the company worked so like a machine. Our squad was on the outer flank, coming along the broken roadside wall, when I heard someone say from the lone car that we were approaching. “Aren’t they doing it magnificently?”

I knew the voice. It was the old colonel, standing up in the car to watch us. With him were Vera, Frances, and their hosts the Chapmans.

The captain came close up and spoke to us. “Corporal, has your flank guard seen any outposts?”

Bann called across the road to Knudsen. “What have you seen?” He answered “Nothing.”

Said the captain, “After the next rush I shall send your whole squad across. Forward now to the line of that row of apple trees ahead.” And at Barm’s “Follow me!” we slipped ahead not merely to the line of three old trees, but also to the position of the waiting motor, which was just abreast of us. While the rest of the company slipped forward to our line, I took a satisfying look at the girls. Frances saw me, and we smiled. Vera was absolutely intent on something behind me, of course the captain. And still not a shot from the flank-guard in front, I think a sleepy platoon under a sergeant. We chuckled. But then a gun went off in our line somewhere on the right. We swore. Ahead of us the enemy broke into a crackle of gunfire, not very heavy.

In it, so few were the guns that were firing, I clearly distinguished, among the short dull explosions of the blanks we know so well, a sharp and angry crack, followed by a tearing snap right over my head.

Surprised, I yet recognized the noise of the passage of a bullet. A second time!—and then, familiar as I am with the legend of the clip of ball cartridges, I instantly knew it to be true. And again—Crack-snap! I heard the old colonel crying to the ladies, “Down!”

Then a long blast of the captain’s whistle. I knew he was on his feet behind me, then heard his voice through the sputter of fire that was beginning from our own line. “Cease firing!” Over my shoulder I looked at him, a fine manly figure in the attitude of command, one hand stretched threateningly toward the line in front.

Then, as the roar of our guns burst out on the right, his hat flew backward, I saw blood start out on his temple, and as if an axe had struck him, he was down!

Quickly as I was on my feet, someone was quicker. A flash of white went past me, and there was Vera on her knees, gathering into her lap the head of the fallen man. I heard her little moaning cry.

In the few moments that followed I stood stupidly helpless. Our fire stopped suddenly, as the sergeants enforced the captain’s command. The fire stopped in front. In the little circle of the branches of the old tree we were quiet as—yes, as the grave. Vera, holding the captain’s head fiercely close, looked wildly round for help. It was Frances who slipped by me and with her handkerchief wiped away the blood that stood upon the temple.

Oh, the relief! A long red bruise showed where the bullet had passed.

And then he opened his eyes. Vera, looking down on him, said quite simply, “Are you all right, Allan?”

Was he all right? Was he in heaven? At the look on his face I turned away with sudden tears in my eyes. The rest, I know, also avoided that solemn privacy. As it came about, mother, I turned toward Frances, and she, quite overcome, to me. In such a moment of emotion, things happen. As she rested on my breast, we found that she belonged there.

It was the trampling of the major’s horse that brought us to ourselves. The captain, though pale and unsteady, was on his feet. Bannister had drawn the squad quietly out of the shade of the tree. They were looking at the landscape; as for the major, he was most inscrutable, which happens, you know, when there is something to scrutinize. Said he very innocently: “The lieutenant will take the company in, Captain Kirby. I think we’d better ask your friends here to bring you to the surgeon.—Call your men together, Mr. Pendleton!”

The lieutenant, pale as the captain, yet looking very resolute, stepped up to him and wrenched his hand, bowed over Vera’s, turned about and blew his whistle. With his hand he signalled the assembly. And good Bannister, very apologetic at interrupting my love-making, said diffidently “Hem! Squad Eight, fall in!”

But I kissed Frances before them all, and helped the captain into the tonneau, where they established him very comfortably between the two girls. It was not till I had got a smile from him and a proud look from Vera that I went to my place in the company. As I went I saw out of the corner of my eye the major and his staff holding an inquest on the platoon that had fired on us. I wondered who had had that clip of ball cartridges.

But they never found out. We rested for a while at the crossroads, and I can tell you I had to stand some banter from the squad after the motor had shot by us, with Frances’s handkerchief fluttering to me. There was very excited speculation as to the penalty for shooting the captain; some were for a military execution when we got to camp, with burial on the drill field. But the major came and told the lieutenant, and he passed the word to the company—the men who fired on us had used up all their cartridges and moved from the ground before they had been accused of the use of ball; no one knew, apparently not even themselves, who had fired the dangerous shots. It might happen, you know, that a stupid or excited man might load with ball and not be aware of it. As for me, I’m not finding any fault, nor are certain others that I could name.

The march in to camp? To tell the truth, I don’t remember much of it, for I was thinking a good deal. One poor chap we passed as he waited for the hospital truck to come along and pick him up, a disappointed man of fifty, who held his head down and would not look at us as we tramped by in sympathetic silence. As we entered the residence quarter of Plattsburg, where people lined the streets, the whistles blew Halt and we were waved to the two sides of the street: “Fall out to the right and left.” We dropped down on the grass all around a rock where two pretty girls had ensconced themselves to see us pass; instead, we saw them run! Then on we went through the town, marching at attention, with everybody out on the streets to watch the last of the rookies of 1916.

But when we reached the post there was evidently to be a March Past, for the band was playing ahead of us, stationed opposite the general and his staff. We braced ourselves up, swung into line—and there was the captain in front of us! Very pale he was, with a bit of white bandage showing under the hat that had the hole in it. But he was firm on his feet. What a yell for a moment we let out! Then like veterans we followed him with his old familiar stride, and if there was a break in all our line—no, I can’t believe it. We saluted the general, the lieutenant broke us into column of squads, and then we gave Eyes Right to the captain, who stood at salute as we marched by.

The break-up was a heart-rending affair. So much had we been delayed by the unexpected skirmish and the little investigation that there was only the smallest amount of time to turn in our equipment, get our baggage, and catch the trains that would not wait. So in the scrabble were no real good-bys, no friendly little chats about the past and future, no appointments for reunions. I did not even shake hands with Bannister as he hurried to the boat that for some reason was his means of getting away. There were just two little events that I can describe to you.

As we marched into camp David was uneasy, and acknowledged frankly that he was afraid his mother would be there to take him home in the motor. But the familiar strawberry limousine was nowhere to be seen, and as we swung into the company street we saw not David’s mother, but his father in his ancient Panama and his wrinkled business suit. The boy shouted his delight, and when we broke ranks he dragged his father to the tent and introduced him to as many of us as he could pin down for a moment. And a little later, catching both Knudsen and me, he kept us in the tent while he reminded his father of a promise. “You know, father, you said you’d give me any kind of an automobile I wanted, if I stayed through the hike.”

Mr. Farnham had been deeply pleased, you could see it in his face, that David had grown so manly. Consequently he was the more disappointed at this prompt practical demand. But though a shade crossed his face, he answered kindly, “You’ve earned it, David.”

David put a hand on my arm, and on his other side drew Knudsen a little closer to him, as if for support. “Then, father, I want a Ford!”

“A Ford?” cried his father. A Ford! thought I—a four hundred dollar car when he might spend his thousands?

“Yes,” said David, a little unsteadily. “I want to learn to take one apart and put it together, and then I want you to send another Ford ambulance to France, with me to drive it.”

A glorious smile broke over the father’s face, of pride, and fondness, yet also of possible sacrifice of this son who was now first showing his manhood—for there is danger in that ambulance service. I saw the story was true that Mr. Farnham has been sending ambulances abroad; and saw also that David had been afraid of his father’s opposition to a scheme which he had been hatching in secret. So he had felt the need of my support and Knudsen’s. But the father held out both hands to his boy, and Knudsen and I slipped quietly out of the tent and walked together, without saying a word, down to the edge of the drill-field.

Said Knudsen then: “Since it’s settled now, that silly mother can’t interfere.”

I was feeling pleased that though at first I had studiously neglected David, he had needed me now. Knudsen’s mind travelled much the same road.

“A good investment,” he said, “the trouble we’ve put into that youngster.”

I had a little talk with Mr. Farnham before the train went. He was overflowing with happiness. David had somehow got the idea of service, and unknown to us had been planning his life by it. First to help in this emergency in France, then to find some way in which a rich man could give his time to his country, in some branch of public service. It was fixed in his mind that next summer he must be at Plattsburg again, working for a commission in the reserve. Beyond that he would need his father’s advice and help.

“So there’s something more in life for me now,” said the father, “than the mere making of money.”

It was in the midst of all the hurry and confusion of our getting ready to go that I heard a great shouting at the head of the street, and going to see, found the captain there, and Vera watching from a little distance. He had come to take personal leave of those he knew best, shook hands with every one, called scores of us by name, thanked us all for our help in his work, showed in his face his great new happiness. When those who pressed upon him first had gone away, driven by the necessity that was on all of them, he called me to him and made me promise not to leave with the rest, but at least to stay overnight—for we were to be brothers now, he said, and must know each other better before we separated. While a new group came and talked with him I went to Vera.

“Frances is waiting in the car outside,” she said, scarcely glancing at me, but with eager eyes watching the captain and the men who still pressed upon him.

“Is he popular now?” I asked. “Do the men love him? Don’t you approve of him a little bit yourself?”

This roused her into giving me all her attention for a moment. “Oh, Dick,” she cried, remembering, “if it hadn’t been for what you said to him, perhaps—!” She couldn’t quite express the tragedy that would have followed.

“Perhaps it would have taken a little longer, that is all,” I said. “There, watch him, do.” For in spite of herself her eyes would stray back to him. “Frances will be nice to me.” And Frances was, until I told her I must go back to the boys.

There was a minute or two here and there that I could get from the busy men. But mostly I helped them get away, cleaned their guns, handed in their stuff, helped them pack, lugged their baggage with them to the train. Knudsen and I and Clay had one last short walk together, up and down the embankment beside the train, soberly vowing friendship for the future. Then the conductor gave the signal, they climbed aboard, there was a short half-minute of waving of good-bys, and I walked back alone across the empty drill field.

I am sitting now upon my bag in the tent which has so often rung with our laughter or buzzed with our talk. Here are the ridges and hollows made by our feet, over in the corner are Clay’s old shoes, and near me lie three empty shells that David threw out of his pocket. Our equipment is all turned in, the buzzards in our absence carried everything else away, and this lonely silence is more than I can bear. In a few minutes I shall close this last letter to you; then Frances will come in the car to take me to a telegraph office, where I shall wire you that she and I are starting home tomorrow with the Chapmans, and shall not be home for three days more. As I shall hint at the reason, you will understand and will forgive me this delay. I know, dear mother, that your heart always was with Frances, after all.

And so good-by to Plattsburg!