Uncle Sam's Boys with Pershing's Troops Dick Prescott at Grips with the Boche / Hancock, H. Irving (Harrie Irving), 1868-1922

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Title: Uncle Sam's Boys with Pershing's Troops
       Dick Prescott at Grips with the Boche

Author: H. Irving Hancock

Release Date: July 3, 2004 [EBook #12810]
[Date last updated: September 16, 2005]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK UNCLE SAM'S BOYS ***




Produced by Jim Ludwig





UNCLE SAM'S BOYS WITH PERSHING'S TROOPS
or
Dick Prescott at Grips with the Boche


By H. Irving Hancock




CONTENTS

CHAPTERS
    I. Dick at Training Camp
   II. Greg has to be Stern
  III. Bad Blood Comes to the Surface
   IV. As it is Done in the Army
    V. The Camp Carpenter's Talk
   VI. The Enemy in Camp Berry
  VII. At Grips with German Spies
 VIII. With the Conscientious Objectors
   IX. Order for "Over There"
    X. On Board the Troopship
   XI. In the Waters of the Sea Wolves
  XII. The Best of Details!
 XIII. Off to See Fritz in His Wild State
  XIV. The Thrill of the Fire Trench
   XV. Out in No Man's Land
  XVI. The Trip Through a German Trench
 XVII. Dick Prescott's Prize Catch
XVIII. A Lot More of the Real Thing
  XIX. A "Guest" in Prison Camp
   XX. On a German Prisoner Train
  XXI. Seeking Death More Than Escape
 XXII. Can It Be the Old Chum?
XXIII. The Dash to Get Back to Pershing
 XXIV. Conclusion




CHAPTER I

DICK AT TRAINING CAMP


His jaw set firmly, his keen, fiery eyes roving over the group
before him, the gray-haired colonel of infantry closed his remarks
with these words:

"Gentlemen, the task set for the officers of the United States
Army is to produce, with the least possible delay, the finest
fighting army in the world.  Our own personal task is to make
this, the Ninety-ninth, the finest regiment of infantry in that
army.

"You have heard, at some length, what is expected of you.  Any
officer present, of any grade, who does not feel equal to the
requirements I have laid down will do well to seek a transfer
to some other regiment or branch of the service, or to send in
his resignation as a military officer."

Rising to their feet behind the long, uncovered pine board mess
tables at which they had sat listening and taking notes, the eyes
of the colonel's subordinate officers glistened with enthusiasm.
Instead of showing any trace of dissent they greeted their commanding
officer's words with a low murmur of approval that grew into a
noisy demonstration, then turned into three rousing cheers.

"And a tiger!" shouted a young lieutenant, in a bull-like voice
that was heard over the racket.

Colonel Cleaves, though he did not unbend much before the tumult,
permitted a gleam of satisfaction to show itself in his fine,
rugged features.

"Good!" he said quietly, in a firm voice.  "I feel assured that
we shall all pull together for the common weal and for the abiding
glory of American arms."

Gathering up the papers that he had, during his speech, laid out
on the table before him, the colonel stepped briskly down the
central aisle of the mess-room.  As it was a confidential meeting
of regimental officers, and no enlisted man was present, one of
the second lieutenants succeeded in being first to reach the door.
Throwing it open, he came smartly to attention, saluting as the
commanding officer passed through the doorway.  Then the door
closed.

"Good!" cried Captain Dick Prescott.  "That was straight talk
all the way through."

"Hit the mark or leave the regiment!" voiced Captain Greg Holmes
enthusiastically.

"Be a one hundred per cent. officer, or get out of the service!"
agreed another comrade.

The tumult had already died down.  The officers, from Lieutenant-Colonel
Graves down to the newest "shave-tail" or second lieutenant, acted
as by common impulse when they pivoted slowly about on their heels,
glancing at each other with earnest smiles.

"Gentlemen, our job has been cut out for us.  We know the price
of success, and we know what failure would mean for us, personally
or collectively.  Going over to quarters, Sands?"

Thrusting a hand through the arm of Major Sands, Lieutenant-Colonel
Graves started down the aisle.  Little groups followed, and the
mess-room of that company barracks was speedily emptied.

Hard work, not age, had brought the gray frosting into the hair
of Colonel Cleaves; he was forty-seven years old, and not many
months before he had been only a major.

The time was early in September, in the year 1917.  War had been
declared against Germany on April 6th.  In the middle of July
the Ninety-o-ninth Infantry had been called into existence.  Regiments
were then being added to the Regular Army.  Two or three hundred
trained soldiers and several hundred recruits had made up the
beginnings of the regiment.  Prescott and Holmes had been among
the latest of the captains sent to the regiment, arriving in August.
And now Colonel Cleaves had just joined his command on orders
from Washington.

With forty men in the headquarters company and some fifty in the
machine-gun company, the rifle companies on this September day
averaged about seventy men.  Nor had a full complement of officers
yet arrived.

Dick Prescott and Greg Holmes, lately first lieutenants, as readers
of former volumes of this series are aware, had received their
commissions as captains just before joining the Ninety-ninth.

"This regiment is scheduled to go over at an early date," Colonel
Cleaves had informed his regimental officers, at the conference
of which we have just witnessed the close.  "Headquarters and
machine-gun companies must be raised to their respective quotas
of men, and each rifle company must be increased from seventy
to two hundred and fifty men each.  New recruits will arrive every
week.  These men must be whipped into shape.  Gentlemen, I expect
your tireless aid in making this the finest infantry regiment in
the American line."

One or two glances at Colonel Cleaves, when he was talking earnestly,
were enough to show the observer that this officer meant all he
said.  Shirkers, among either officers or men, would receive scant
consideration in his regiment.

Camp Berry, at which the Ninety-ninth and the Hundredth were stationed,
lay in one of the prettiest parts of Georgia.  Needless to say
the day was one of sweltering heat and the regimental officers,
as they filed out of the company barracks that had been used for
holding the conference, fanned themselves busily with their campaign
hats.  Each, however, as he struck the steps leading to the ground,
placed his campaign hat squarely on his head.

"Some pace the K.O. has set for us," murmured Greg, as he and
Dick started to walk down the company street.

"And we must keep that pace if we hope to last in Colonel Cleaves's
regiment," Dick declared, with conviction.  "Time was when an
officer in the Regular Army could look forward to remaining an
officer as long as he was physically fit and did not disgrace
himself.  But in this war any officer, regular or otherwise, will
find himself laid on the shelf whenever he fails to produce his
full share of usefulness."

"Do you think it's really as bad as that, Prescott?" demanded
Captain Cartwright, who was walking just behind them.

"Worse!" Dick replied dryly and briefly.

Cartwright sighed, then took a tighter grip on the swagger stick
that he carried jauntily in his right hand.  Cartwright was a smart,
soldierly looking chap, but was well known as an officer who was
not addicted to hard work.

Past three or four barrack buildings on the street the chums walked,
Cartwright still keeping just behind them.

"Look at the work of Sergeant Mock, will you?" demanded Greg,
halting short as they came to the edge of one of the drill grounds.

Mock belonged to Greg's own company.  At this moment the sergeant
was busy, or should have been, drilling what was supposed to be
a platoon, though to-day it consisted of only two corporals' squads,
or sixteen men in all.

Greg Holmes's eyes opened wide with disgust as he watched the
drilling, unseen by the sergeant.

The platoon had just wheeled and marched off by fours.  The cadence
was too slow, the men looked slouchy and showed no signs whatever
of spirit.

"Perhaps the sergeant isn't feeling well," remarked Dick, with
a smile.

"He won't be feeling well after he has talked with me," Greg uttered
between his teeth.

To the further limit of the drill ground the sergeant marched
his platoon, then wheeled them and brought them back again.  As
he came about the sergeant caught sight of his company commander.
In an undertone he gave an order that brought his men along at
greater speed than they had gone.

"Halt!" ordered the sergeant, and brought up his hand in salute
to the officers.

"Sergeant Mock," called Holmes, in a low, even voice, "turn the
men over to a corporal and come here."

Hastily, and flushing, Sergeant Mock came forward.

"How are the men feeling?" Greg inquired, after signaling the
corporal now in charge to continue the drilling.

"Tired, sir," replied Mock, with a shamefaced look.

"And how is the sergeant feeling?" Greg went on, as the corporal
led the men across the drill ground, this time at a sharper pace
and correcting any fault in soldierly bearing that he observed.

"All right, sir," replied the sergeant.

"Then, if you're feeling all right, Sergeant Mock," Greg continued
in as even a voice as before, "explain to me why you were marching
the platoon at a cadence of about ninety, instead of the regulation
hundred and twenty steps per minute.  Tell me why the alignment
of the fours was poor, and why the men were allowed to march without
paying the slightest heed to their bearing."

Though there was nothing at all sharp in the company commander's
voice, Mock knew that he was being "called," and, in fact, was
perilously close to being "cussed out."

"The---the day is hot, sir, and---and I knew the men were about
played out," stammered Mock.

"How long have you been in the Army, sergeant?" Greg continued.

"About two years and a half, sir."

"In all that time did you ever know officers or enlisted men to be
excused from full performance of ordered duty on account of the
weather?"

"N-n-no, sir."

"Then why did you start a new system on your own authority?" Greg
asked quietly.

Mock tried to answer, opened his mouth, in fact, and uttered a
few incoherent sounds, which quickly died in his throat.

"Sergeant Mock," said Greg, "we have just heard from our commanding
officer.  He demands the utmost from every officer, non-com and
private.  Are you prepared, and resolved, from this moment, to give
the utmost that is in you at all times?"

"Yes, sir!" replied Mock with great emphasis.

"You mean what you are saying, Sergeant?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very good, then," continued the young captain.  "I am going to
take your word for it this time.  But if I ever find you slacking
or shirking again, I am going to go to the colonel immediately and
ask him to 'break' you back to the ranks."

"Yes, sir," assented Mock, saluting.

"Are you fully familiar with all your drill work?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then remember that our enemies, the German soldiers, are men
who are drilled and drilled until they are perfect in their work,
and that their discipline is amazing.  Keep the fact in mind that
we can hardly hope to whip our enemies unless we are at least as
good soldiers as they.  That is all.  Go back to your men, Sergeant."

Standing stiffly erect, Sergeant Mock brought up his right hand
in a crisp salute, then wheeled and walked briskly back to join
his men.  Greg turned as if to say that he did not feel the need
of remaining to watch the rebuked sergeant.

"By Jove!" uttered Captain Cartwright.  "I do wish, Holmes, you'd
come over and dress down some of my non-coms.  I've been trying
for three days to put 'pep' into some of them, and the K.O. frowned
at me this morning."

"Non-com" is the Army abbreviation for "non-commissioned
officers"---corporals and sergeants---while "K.O." is Army slang
for commanding officer.

Arrived at an unpainted wooden barracks, in size and appearance
just like those of the enlisted men, the three captains entered
and walked up a flight of stairs to the floor above.  Here they
passed through a narrow corridor with doors on both sides that
bore the cards of the officers who slept behind the respective
doors.  Cartwright went to his own room, while Greg followed Dick
into the latter's quarters.

Plain enough was the room, seven and a half feet wide and ten
feet in length, with a single sliding window at the front.  Walls
and ceiling, like the floor, were of pine boards.  There were
shelves around two sides of the room, with clothing hooks underneath.
Under the window was a desk, with a cot to one side; the rest
of the furniture consisted of two folding camp chairs.

Entering, Dick hung up his campaign hat on one of the hooks, Greg
doing the same.  On account of the heat of the day neither young
captain wore a tunic.  Each unbuttoned the top button of his olive
drab Army shirt before he dropped into a chair.

"What do you think of the new K.O.?" Dick asked, as he picked a
newspaper up from the desk and started to fan himself.

"He means business," Greg returned.  "I am glad he does," Dick
went on.  "This is no time for slack soldiering.  Greg, I'll feel
consoled for working eighteen hours a day if it results in making
the Ninety-ninth the best infantry regiment of the line."

"Can it be done?" Greg inquired.

"Yes."

"But I've a hunch that every other regiment is striving for the
same honor," Captain Holmes continued.  "Ours isn't the only K.O.
who covets the honor of commanding the best regiment of 'em all."

"It can be done," Dick insisted, "and I say it must be done."

"Yet other regiments would be so close to us in excellence that
it would be hard to name the one that is really best."

"In that case we wouldn't have won the honor," Dick smilingly
insisted.

"Then consider that fellow Cartwright," Greg added, lowering his
voice a bit.  "He's a born shirker, and one weak company would make
a regiment that much poorer."

"If Cartwright shirks, then mark my word that he'll be dropped,"
Dick rejoined quickly.  "But Greg, man, this is war-time, and
the biggest and most serious war in which we were ever engaged.
There must be no doubts---no ifs or buts.  We must have a regiment
one hundred per cent. perfect.  I'm going to do my share with
a company one hundred percent. good, even if I don't find time
for any sleep."

Up the corridor there sounded a knock at a door.  Something was
said in a low voice.  Then the knock was repeated on Prescott's
door.

"Come in!" called Dick.

An orderly entered saluting.

"Orders from the adjutant, sir," said the soldier, handing Prescott
a folded paper.  He handed one like it to Greg, then saluted and
left the room, knocking at the next door.

"Company drill from one to two-thirty," summarized Prescott, glancing
through the typewritten words on the unfolded sheet.  "Practice
march by battalions from two-forty-five to three-forty-five.
Squad drill from four o'clock until retreat.  That looks brisk, Greg."

"Doesn't it?" asked Holmes, without too plain signs of enthusiasm.
"Company drill and the hike call for our presence, preferably,
and yet I've paper work enough to keep me busy until evening mess."

"Paper work," so-called, is the bane of life for the company commander.
It consists of keeping, making and signing records, of the keeping
and inspection of accounts; it deals with requisitions for supplies
and an endless number of reports.

"I have a barrelful of paper work, too," Dick admitted.  "But
I'm going to see everything going well on the drill ground before I
go near company office."

"All good things must end," grunted Greg, rising to his feet, "even
this rest.  Mess will be on in eight minutes."

The instant that the door had closed Dick drew off his olive drab
shirt, drew out a lidded box from under the bed and deposited
the shirt therein, next restoring the box to place bring out a
basin from under the bed and placing it on a chair, he found towel
and soap and busied himself with washing up.  His toilet completed,
he took a clean shirt from a bundle on one of the neatly arranged
shelves and donned the garment.  A few more touches, and, spick-and-span,
clean and very soldierly looking, he descended to the ground floor.
A glance into the mess-room showed him that the noon meal was not
yet ready, so be sauntered to the doorway, remaining just inside
out of the sun's rays.

Other officers gathered quickly.  A waiter from mess appeared at
the inner doorway, speaking a quiet word that caused the regiment's
officers, except the colonel and his staff, to file inside.

Plain pine tables, without cloths, long pine benches nailed to
the floor---officers' mess was exactly like that of the enlisted
men, save that officers' mess was provided with heavy crockery,
while in the company mess-rooms the men ate from aluminum mess-kits.

Most of the food was already in place on the table.  The meal
began with a lively hum of conversation.  Occasionally some merry
officer called out jokingly to some officer at another table;
there was no special effort at dignified silence.

"The K.O. has our number!" exclaimed an irrepressible lieutenant.

"How so?" demanded Noll Terry, Prescott's first lieutenant.

"He knows us for a bunch of shirkers, and so he gave us the 'pep'
talk this morning."

"Is the 'pep' going to work with you?" asked Noll laughingly.

"Surely!  I wouldn't dare be slow, even in drawing my breath,
after hearing the K.O. talk in that fashion."

"Same here," Noll nodded.

"I've been working sixteen hours a day ever since I hit camp," chimed
in another lieutenant.  "What's the new system going to be?  Eighteen
hours a day?"

"Twenty, perhaps," said Greg's first lieutenant cheerfully.

The meal had been under way for fifteen minutes when Captain Cartwright
entered leisurely.

"I suppose you fellows have eaten all the best stuff," he called,
as he looked about and found a vacant seat, though he paused as
if in no great haste to occupy it.

"Same old Cartwright," observed Greg, in an undertone to Dick.
"He's late, even at mess formation."

But Cartwright heard, and wheeled about, looking half-angrily
at young Captain Holmes.

"Say, Holmes, you're as free as ever with your tongue."

"Yes," Greg answered unconcernedly.  "Using it to taste my food,
and I've been finding the taste uncommonly pleasant."

"You use your tongue in more ways than that," snapped Captain
Cartwright.  "I happened to hear what you said about me in Prescott's
room a few minutes ago."

"Eavesdropping?" queried Greg calmly.

"What's that?" snapped Cartwright, and his flush deepened.  "See
here, Holmes, I don't want any trouble with you."

"That shows a lively sense of discretion," smiled Greg, turning
to face the other.

"But I want you to stop picking on me.  Talk about somebody else
for a change!"

"With pleasure," nodded Greg, as he shrugged his shoulders and
turned to drop a spoonful of sugar in his second cup of coffee.
"There are lots of agreeable subjects for conversation in Camp
Berry."

"Meaning---?" demanded Cartwright, still standing, and scowling,
for, out of the corners of his eyes, he saw that several of his
brother officers were smiling.

"Meaning almost anything that you wish," continued Captain Holmes,
serenely, as he stirred his coffee.

"Sit down, Cartwright," urged a low voice.  "This is a gentleman's
outfit," declared another voice, perhaps not intended to reach
Cartwright's ears.  But he heard the words and his mounting rage
caused him to take a step nearer to Greg, at the same time clenching
his fists.

Greg, though he realized what was taking place, did not bother to
turn, but coolly raised his cup to his lips.

"Sit down," called another voice.  "You're rocking the boat."

But Cartwright took a second step.  It is impossible to say what
would have happened, but Dick Prescott, half turning in his seat,
caught the angry captain's nearer wrist in a grip of steel and
fairly swang Cartwright into a vacant seat at his left.  Greg
was sitting at his right.

"Don't be foolish, Cartwright, and don't let the day's heat go
to your head," Prescott advised.  "Don't do anything you'd regret."

Though Captain Cartwright's blood was boiling there was a sense
of quiet mastery in Prescott's manner and voice, combined with
a quality of leadership that restrained the angry man for the
next few seconds, during which Dick turned to a waiter to say:

"This meat is cold.  Bring some hot meat for Captain Cartwright,
and more vegetables.  Try some of this salad, Cartwright---it's
good."

Instantly the officers, looking eagerly on, turned their glances
away and began general conversation again, for they were quick
to see that Dick's usual tact was at least postponing a quarrel.

"It will be a hot afternoon for drill, won't it?" Dick asked,
in the next breath, and in a low tone.

"Maybe," grunted Cartwright.  "But perhaps I shall find still
hotter work before the drill-call sounds."

"Nonsense!" said Dick quickly.  "After the K.O.'s talk this morning,
don't start anything that will take our mind off our work."

"I've got to have a bit more than an explanation from Holmes,"
the sulky captain continued, though in a low voice.

"Cartwright," said Dick, in an authoritative undertone, "I don't
want you to start anything in that direction until you've had a
good talk with me!"

There the matter ended for the moment.  Dick joined in the general
conversation.  Presently Cartwright tried to, but the officers
to whom he addressed his remarks replied either so briefly or
so coolly that the captain realized that he was not popular at
the present time.

"Holmes will make trouble for any one who doesn't toady to him,"
thought Captain Cartwright moodily.  "I can see that I've got
to make it my business to take the conceit and arrogance out of him."

At almost the same moment, over in a company barracks, Sergeant
Mock, as he chewed his food gloomily, was reflecting:

"So Captain Holmes will call me down before a lot of officers,
will he?  He'll order me to show more 'pep,' will he, the
slave-driver?  And if I don't he'll break me, eh?"

"Breaking" a non-commissioned officer is securing his reduction
to the grade of private.

"The captain is so lazy himself that he doesn't know a good man
when he sees one," Mock told himself angrily.

Then he added, threateningly to himself:

"He'd better not try it.  If he does, he'll sure wish he hadn't.
Since this war began even the officers are only on probation, and
I've brains enough to find a way to put him in bad with the
regimental K.O."

"What's the matter, Mock, don't you like your food?" asked the
sergeant seated at his left.  "You're scowling something fierce."

"It isn't the chow," Sergeant Mock retorted gruffly.

"Must be the heat, then---or a call-down," observed his brother
sergeant.

"Never you mind!" retorted Mock.  "And I'm not talking much now;
I want to think."

"Must have been a real 'cussing-out' that you got," grinned the
other sergeant unconcernedly.

Bending over a passing soldier murmured to Mock:

"Top wants to see you in the company office when you're through
eating."

The first sergeant of a company is also known, in Army parlance,
as the "top sergeant" or the "top cutter."

Though he dawdled with his meal Mock did not eat much more.  Finally
he rose, stalking sulkily from the mess-room and across the central
corridor.  Thrusting out a hand he turned the knob of the door
of the company office and almost flung the door open, stepping
haughtily inside.

"Mock," said First Sergeant Lund, looking up, "you're too old
in the service to enter in that fashion.  You know, as well as
I do, that there is a 'knock' sign painted on the door, and that
only an officer is privileged to enter without knocking.  Suppose
the captain had been in here when you flung in in that fashion?"

"He's no better than any one else!" retorted Mock.

Facing about in his chair Sergeant Lund briefly rested one hand
on his desk, then sprang to his feet.

"Attention!" he commanded sharply.

Mock obeyed, throwing his head up, his chest out and squaring his
shoulders as he dropped his hands straight along either trousers
seam, though he sneered:

"Putting on officer's airs, are you, Lund?"

"No; I appear to be talking to a rookie (recruit) who happens
to be wearing a sergeant chevrons," retorted the top sternly.
"Sergeant Mock, in this office, or anywhere in my presence, you
will refrain from making disrespectful remarks about your officers
And I'd advise you to adopt that as your standard at all times
and in all places.  Do you get that?"

"I hear you," Mock rejoined, standing at ease again.  "You wanted
to see me?"

"Yes.  Shortly before recall sounded I looked out of the window
and noticed that you were handling the second platoon in anything
but a soldierly manner.  I was about to come out and speak to
you when I observed the captain call you to him.  He corrected
your method of handling the platoon, didn't he?"

"He thought he did," Sergeant Mock responded, his lips quivering
"But the tone he took, or rather the words he said to me, aren't
the kind that make better soldiers of non-coms."

"So?" demanded Sergeant Lund, looking sharply into his subordinate's
eyes.

"No!" Mock snapped sullenly.  "When an officer wants me to do
my best be's got to treat me like the gentleman that he's supposed
to be."

For twenty seconds Sergeant Lund continued his staring at Mock.
Then he rested a hand heavily on the other's shoulder as he said:

"Sergeant Mock, this is a man's army, training to do a nation's
share in the biggest war in history.  None but a man can do a
man's work, and nothing but an army of real men can do the nation's
work.  If you fit yourself into your place, work hard enough and
forget all about yourself except your oath to serve the Flag and
obey your officers, I believe that you can do a real man's work.
If you do anything different from that I'll knock your block off
without a second word on the subject."

A hotly angry reply leaped to Sergeant Mock's lips, but he was
wise enough to choke it back.  For Sergeant Lund, a real man,
a real soldier and a loyal American, stood before him regarding
him with a look in which there was no faltering nor any doubt as
to his intentions.

"That's all, Sergeant Mock," said the top, an instant later.
"I'm going to keep an eye on you, and I want to be able to say
a word of praise to you this evening."

"Two of a kind---the top and the company commander," Mock growled
under his breath as he went up the stairs to a squad room above.




CHAPTER II

GREG HAS TO BE STERN


A full minute before the bugler sounded the call Captain Dick
Prescott was on hand, standing in the shadow of the end of the
barracks of his company.  Among other reasons he was there to
note the alacrity with which his men came out of the building.

Before the notes of the call had died away most of the men of
his company were on hand, his lieutenants among the first.  Within
saving time all the rest had appeared, except those who had been
excused for one reason or another.

"A company fall in!" directed First Sergeant Kelly promptly.

As the men fell in in double rank there were a few cases of confusion,
for some of the men were rookies who had joined only recently.

"Sergeant Kelly, instruct the other sergeants to see to it that
each man knows his exact place in company formation," Dick ordered.

"Yes, sir," replied Kelly.

The corporals reported briskly the absentees, if any, in their
squads.  The counting of fours sounded next after inspection of
arms.

"A little more snap in answering when fours are counted," Dick
called, loudly enough for all the company to hear.  "Let every
man call his own number instantly and clearly.  For instance,
when one man has called 'two' let the man at his left call 'three'
without a second's delay.  In the way of good soldiering this
is more important than most of you new men realize.  Lieutenant
Terry!"

"Sir," the first lieutenant responded, stepping forward, saluting.

"Take the company.  Drill in dressings, facings, the manual of
arms, wheeling and marching by twos and fours."

Then, stepping to one side, Prescott let his gaze rove over the
company, from one file or rank to another.  Everything that was
done badly he noted.  Presently, when the men were standing at
ease he related his observations to Lieutenant Noll Terry, who
thereupon gave the company further instruction.

Finally, when the company started across the drill ground in column
of fours, Dick walked briskly into the barracks building, going
to the company office, whither Sergeant Kelly had preceded him.
Kelly, and a corporal and private who were there on clerical duty,
rose and stood at attention as the captain entered.

"Rest," Dick commanded briefly, whereupon the corporal and the
private returned to the desk at which they were working, while
Dick crossed to the sergeant's desk.  Seating himself there he
gave close attention to the papers that Sergeant Kelly handed
him.  Such as required signature Captain Prescott signed.  Then,
for fifteen minutes, he busied himself with requisitions for clothing
and equipment.  After that other papers required close attention.
Following that several matters of company administration had
to be taken up.  Finally, Sergeant Kelly handed Dick a list on
which names had been written.

"These seven men have applied for pass from retreat this afternoon
until reveille tomorrow morning," reported Dick's top.  "I have
approved them, subject to your action."

Reading quickly through the names, Prescott replied:

"Give six of them pass, but refuse it to Private Hartley.  This
forenoon I observed that he saluted officers very indifferently
when passing them, and once Hartley had to be spoken to by an
officer whom he did not see in time to salute him.  In whose squad
is Hartley?"

"In Corporal Aspen's, sir."

"Then direct Corporal Aspen to take Hartley aside, at any time
suited to the corporal's convenience this evening.  Have the corporal
drill Private Hartley at least twenty minutes in saluting, with,
of course, proper intervals for arm rest."

"Yes, sir.  May I offer the captain a suggestion?"

"Yes."

"Aspen will be corporal in charge of quarters to-night.  Hartley
is sometimes a very slovenly soldier," Kelly reported.  "May I
direct Corporal Aspen to keep Hartley up and give the instruction
in saluting after midnight?  Corporal Aspen could take the man
into the mess-room where none of the men would be disturbed."

"That sounds like a good idea," Dick nodded, smiling slightly.
"If he has to lose some of his sleep for instruction Hartley
may remember better.  A soldier who offers his salutes in a slovenly
fashion is always a long way from being a really good soldier.
And, Sergeant, tell all the corporals that each will be held
responsible for drill and instruction of their squads in the art
of snappy saluting."

Glancing at his wrist watch Prescott now noted that it was within
five minutes of time for the battalion practice march.  Accordingly
he stepped outside.  His lieutenants being already on the drill
ground he gave them brief directions as to the instruction to
be imparted on the hike and the deficiencies in the men's work
that were to be watched for.  While he was still speaking the
bugler sounded assembly.

Two or three minutes later the first battalion, under Major Wells,
marched off the drill ground in column of fours.

As A company moved off at the head of the battalion some of the
non-coms called quietly:

"Hip!  hip!  hip!"

At each "hip" the men stepped forward on the left foot.  A few
of the recruits still found difficulty in keeping step.

"Let that third four close up!" ordered Lieutenant Terry briskly.
"Pay more heed to keeping the interval correctly."

When the third four closed up those behind closed in accordance,
sergeants and corporals giving this matter close attention.

As it was a practice march the men continued to move in step.
Company streets were left behind and the battalion moved on across
a field, where later a trench system was to be installed, out
past where the rifle ranges were already being constructed, and
then up the gradual ascent of a low hill from which a spread-out
view of the camp was to be had.  On all the out-lying roads, at
this time, bodies of troops were to be seen marching in various
directions.  At a distance these columns of men, clad in olive
drab, made one think of brown caterpillars moving slothfully along.
That was a distance effect, however, for the marching men did
not move slowly, but kept on at the regular cadence of a hundred
and twenty steps to the minute.

In less than ten minutes after the start, with the rays of the
sun pouring down mercilessly on them, the soldiers began to perspire
freely.  Another five minutes and it was necessary to brush the
perspiration out of their eyes.

Assuredly the officers felt the heat as much.  Yet from time to
time Captain Prescott fell out from his place at the head of the
company and allowed the line to march by, observing every good,
indifferent or bad feature of their marching, and correcting what
he could by low spoken commands.  Whenever the last of the company
had passed Prescott ran along by the marching men until he had
gained the head.  If the men suffered acute discomfort in marching
Prescott experienced more suffering in running under that hot
sun.  But he was intent only on the idea of having the best company
in what he fondly hoped would turn out to be the best regiment
in the Army.

For some minutes Greg had been aware that Sergeant Mock, of his
company, was hobbling along.  Now, as he turned to glance backward,
he saw Mock step out of the ranks, go to the side of the road
and sit down.

A glance at his wrist watch, and Greg saw that the first half-hour
was nearly up.  In a minute or two more, he knew Major Bell would
give the order for a counter-march, and the first battalion would
swing and come back on its own trail.  So Captain Holmes turned
and ran back to his non-commissioned officer.

"What's the matter, Sergeant?" the young captain inquired pleasantly.

Mock made as though trying to rise from the ground to stand at
attention, but his lips twisted as though he were in pain.

"Rest," ordered Greg, "and tell me what ails you."

"My feet are killing me, sir," groaned the sergeant.

"That's odd," Captain Holmes commented.  "You were all right at
assembly---lively enough then.  Has half an hour of marching used
up a sound, healthy man?"

Instantly the sergeant's look became surly.

"All I know, sir, is that I could hardly stand on my feet.  So
I had to drop out.  If you'll permit it, sir, I shall have to
get back to camp the best way I can."

"If you're that badly off I'll have an ambulance sent for you,"
Greg went on.  "But I don't understand your feet giving out so
suddenly.  Take off one of your shoes and the sock."

"That may not show much, but I'm suffering just the same, sir,"
rejoined the non-com in a grumbling tone.

"Let me see," Greg insisted.

While the sergeant was busy removing a legging and unlacing a
shoe Captain Holmes glanced up the road to discover that the battalion
was counter-marching.

"Be quick about it, Sergeant," Greg urged.

Moving no faster than he had to, Mock took off his shoe, then slowly
turned the sock down, peeling it off.

"Is that the worst foot?" Greg demanded, in astonishment.

"I don't know, sir; they both hurt me."

"Do you want to show me the other foot, or do you wish to get
back among the file closers?"

"I---I can't walk, sir."

Down on one knee went Greg, carefully inspecting the foot and
feeling it.  The skin was clean, rosy, firm.

"Why there isn't a sign of a blister," Captain Holmes declared.
"Nor is there an abrasion of any kind, or any callous.  There
isn't even a corn.  That's as healthy a doughboy foot as I've
seen.  Dress your foot again, and put on your legging---_pronto_."

A "doughboy" is an infantry soldier.  "Pronto" is a word the Army
has borrowed from the Spanish, and means, "Be quick about it."

"I'm not fit to march, sir," cried Sergeant Mock.

"Either you'll be ready by the time B company is here, and you'll
march in, or I'll detail a man to remain here with you, and send
an ambulance for you.  If I have to send an ambulance I'll have
you examined at the hospital, and if I find you've been faking
foot trouble then you shall feel the full weight of military law.
I'll give you your own choice.  Which do you want?"

Tugging his sock on, Mock merely mumbled.

"Answer me!" Greg insisted sharply.

"I---I'll do my best to march, sir."

"Then be sure you're ready by the time B company gets here, and
be sure you march all the way in," Greg ordered sternly.  He hated
a shamming imitation of a soldier.

Major Bell and his staff came by at the head of the line, followed
by Prescott and A company.

"Don't disappoint me, Sergeant," Greg warned his man.

Though his brow was black with wrath Sergeant Mock stood up by
the time that the head of B company arrived.

"Take your place, Sergeant," Greg ordered, and waited to see his
order obeyed, next running up to his own post.

Ten minutes later, as a group of carpenters from the rifle range
paused at the roadside, Greg chanced to glance backward.  He was
just in time to see Sergeant Mock limping out of the line of
file-closers to sit down at the roadside.

His jaws set, Greg Holmes darted back.

"That's enough of this, Mock," he called.  "You can't sham in B
company.  Your feet, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir," groaned the sergeant.

"First two men of the rear four of B company fall out and come
here," Captain Holmes shouted.

Instantly the two men detached themselves from the company and
came running back.

"Fix your bayonets," Greg ordered.  "Bring Sergeant Mock in at
the rear of the battalion.  If he shirks, prod him with the points
of your bayonets.  Don't be brutal, but make the sergeant keep
up at the rear of the battalion."

"Sir-----" began Mock protestingly.

"Quite enough for you, Sergeant Mock,"  Greg rapped out.  "I'll
have your feet examined by a surgeon when you come in.  Unless
the surgeon tells me that I'm wrong you may look for something
to happen!"

As Greg turned and started to run back to the head of his company
he thought he heard a sound like a hiss.  In his opinion it came
from some one in the group of carpenters, but he did not halt
to investigate.

Though Mock limped all the way in, he came in exactly at the tail
of the battalion.  As the last company halted on the drill ground
Sergeant Lund came back for him, relieving the guards.

"Mock, until you've been examined," said the top, "you're not
to go beyond battalion bounds."

"Am I in arrest?" demanded Mock, his face set in ugly lines.

"You're confined within battalion bounds. Remember that," saying
which First Sergeant Lund turned and strode away.

Nor was Mock a happy man.  Holmes arranged that a regimental surgeon
should come over to B company barracks later and make a careful
examination of Sergeant Mock's feet.  For some reason the surgeon
did not come promptly.  The evening meal was eaten, and darkness
settled down over Camp Berry.  Mock, still limping and looking
woeful, kept out in the open air.

"Psst!" came sharply from somewhere, and Mock, turning, saw a
man in civilian garb standing in the shadow of a latrine shed.

"Come here," called the stranger.  Still surly, but urged by curiosity,
Mock obeyed the summons.

"I don't want to be seen talking with you," murmured the stranger,
in a low voice, "but I want to offer you my sympathy.  Say, but
a man gets treated roughly in the Army.  That captain of yours---"

As the stranger paused, looking keenly at Mock, the disgruntled
sergeant finished vengefully:

"The captain?  He's a dog!"

"Dog is right," agreed the stranger promptly.  "Will he do anything
more to you?"

"I expect he'll bust me," said Sergeant Mock.

To "bust" is the same as to "break." It means to reduce a non-com
to the ranks.

"Are you going to stand it?" demanded the stranger.

"Fat chance I'll have to beat the captain's game!" declared Mock
angrily.

"But are you going to pay him back?"

"How?"

"Listen.  I was in the Army once, and I don't like these officer
boys.  Maybe I've something against your captain, too.  Anyway,
keep mum and take good advice, and I'll help you to make him wish
he'd never been born."

"Not a chance!" dissented Sergeant Mock promptly.  "Captain Holmes
isn't afraid of anything, and besides he was born lucky.  Besides
that, do anything to hurt him, and you've got Captain Prescott
against you, too, and ready to rip you up the back."

"It's as easy to put 'em both in bad as it is to do it to either,"
promised the stranger.  "Now, listen.  You-----"




CHAPTER III

BAD BLOOD COMES TO THE SURFACE


Later in the evening the surgeon came around.  After examining
Sergeant Mock's feet for twenty minutes, and testing the skin as
well, he pronounced Mock a shammer.

Mock was sent to the guard-house for twenty-four hours.  The next
morning an order was published reducing the sergeant to the rank
of private.  Yet, on the whole, the ex-sergeant looked pleased in
a sullen, disagreeable sort of way.  He had listened to the stranger.

Greg, however, had other troubles on his hands.  After the noon
meal that day, as he was on his way to his quarters upstairs Captain
Cartwright passed him in the corridor.

"I hear you're turning martinet," said Cartwright, with a disagreeable
smile.

"Very likely," smiled Holmes, "but what are the specifications?"

"I heard that you had a sergeant busted for having an opinion of
his own."

"That's not so," Greg declared promptly.

"Do you mean to tell me I'm a liar?" Cartwright asked flushing.

"Did I understand you to charge me with preferring unjustifiable
charges against a sergeant in my company?"

"I said I heard you had busted a sergeant for doing his own thinking,"
the other captain insisted.

"Cartwright, it's difficult for me to guess at what you're driving,"
Holmes went on, patiently, "but I've already told you that I did
nothing of the kind that you allege."

"That's calling me a liar again!" flamed Cartwright.

"I'm sorry if it is," returned Greg coolly, and turned toward
his door.

"You cannot call me a liar!" cried Captain Cartwright, taking
a quick step forward, his fists clenched.

"Apparently I don't have to," scoffed Holmes.  "You're eager to
claim the title for yourself."

Up flew the other captain's fist.  But just then a door opened
behind him, and Dick Prescott caught the uplifted fist in tight,
vise-like hold.

"Don't do that, Cartwright," he advised.

"Let me alone," insisted the other striving though failing to
release his captured wrist.

"Don't do anything rash, Cartwright.  Listen to good sense; then
I am going to let go of your wrist.  If you were to strike Holmes
he would be practically bound to thrash you, or else to prefer
charges.  In either case the matter would get before a court-martial.
My testimony, from what I overheard, would have to sustain Holmes."

"You two would swear for each other anywhere and at all times,"
sneered Captain Cartwright.

This was hinting that Dick Prescott would be willing to perjure
himself, and Dick flushed, though with difficulty he kept his
patience.

"I'm going to let go of you now, Cartwright," Prescott continued.

As Dick let go of the captured wrist Captain Cartwright wheeled
and aimed a vicious blow at his brother officer's face.

But Prescott's arm thrust up his adversary's.

"Stop it, Cartwright!"

Apparently the other could not control his anger.  He aimed another
savage blow.  Dick parried with a thrust, but this time his other
fist landed on Cartwright's chest with force enough to send him
staggering to a fall on the floor.

At this moment a step was heard on the stairway.

"Gentlemen!  Stop this!  What does it mean?"

The voice was full of authority and outraged dignity.  Colonel
Cleaves, his eyes flashing, stood before them.

"Get up, Captain Cartwright," he commanded.  "I must have an instant
explanation of this scene.  Officers and gentlemen cannot conduct
themselves like rowdies."

Captain Cartwright forced himself to smile as he saluted; he even
tried to look forgiving.

"A little frolic, sir," he made haste to say, "that developed
into bad blood for the moment."  I do not wish to prefer any charges."

"Do you, Captain Prescott?" demanded the colonel.

"No, sir."

"You, Captain Holmes?"

"No, sir."

If any of the trio had hoped this much explanation would prove
satisfactory to the E.O. of the Ninety-ninth, that one had reckoned
without his host.

"A misunderstanding that develops to the point of a knock-down
blow is never a trifling matter," declared Colonel Cleaves.  "If
you gentlemen had assured me that it was all frolic then I would
have thought no more of it.  But I have been assured that there
was a misunderstand---a quarrel that proceeded to blows.  And
I myself saw one man down and signs of very evident anger on all
your faces.  Gentlemen, do you wish to offer me any further explanation
at this moment?"

"I have said all that I really can say, sir," protested Cartwright,
"except that I do not harbor any unkind feelings for what has
taken place."

Steps were heard on the stairs, and other officers of the Ninety-ninth
came upon the scene.

"As no charges have been preferred," said Colonel Cleaves, "I
will not order any of you relieved from duty.  I will notify all
three of you, however, at a later hour, and will then hear you
all in my office.  I trust a most satisfactory explanation all
around will be forthcoming."

Colonel Cleaves then turned to the group of officers that had
just arrived, saying:

"Lieutenant Terry, you were kind enough to offer to loan me a
book on rifle range construction.  I am aware that you have not
yet had a chance to send it over to me, but as I was passing,
I decided to drop in and ask it from you."

"In an instant, sir," replied Noll Terry.  Saluting, he darted
down the corridor, opened his door and came back with the volume.

"I am indebted to you, Mr. Terry," said Colonel Cleaves, returning
the first lieutenant's second salute and turning to go.

Until they had heard the colonel go out upon the steps below the
entire group of younger officers stood as though spell-bound.
But at last one of them broke out with:

"I hope nothing really nasty is afoot.  Three of you look as though
the moon were clouded with mischief for some one."

"You'll pardon us, won't you?" smiled Dick pleasantly, as he turned
to go back into his quarters.  "You will realize, as we do, that
the first discussion of the matter should take place before the
commanding officer."

Greg followed his chum in.

"Oh it's nothing," they heard Captain Cartwright assure the others.
"It ought to blow over, and I hope it will.  A certain officer
took what I thought too much liberty with me, and when I resented
it his friend took a hand in the matter.  I hope we can set it
all straight before Colonel Cleaves."

Behind the closed door, hearing what was said, Prescott turned
on his friend with eyebrows significantly raised.  Greg nodded.
No word was spoken.

Apparently Captain Cartwright also went to his quarters, for the
steps of many sounded outside, and then all was still.

Prescott had picked up a book and was reading.  Greg walked over
to the window and stood looking out into the sun-baked company
street.

"I must go over to company office for an hour or so," announced
Captain Dick, glancing at his wrist watch and laying down his
book at last.  "After that I'll go out and see how the platoon
commanders are getting along with their new work.  I hear that
we're to have some drafts of new men to-morrow."

"Yes," Greg nodded.  "Recruits from Chicago, and also from Boston.
Some day we may hope to have our companies filled up to full
strength."

"Small chance to get over to France until our companies are filled,"
Prescott smiled, as he stood up, looked himself over and started
for the door.

Captain Greg Holmes followed at his heels.  No word was spoken
of the recent trouble with Cartwright, not even when they crossed
the road below and started for their respective company offices.

Paper work engrossed Prescott's attention for an hour or so.
During this time he occasionally glanced up to note what was taking
place beyond the window in front of his desk.  His four second
lieutenants were in command of the platoons to-day, instead of
sergeants.  The young officers were instructing their men in the
first essentials of bayonet combat.

The last piece of paper disposed of, Prescott at last arose, stretched
slightly, then strode out of the office to the drill ground.

He was just in time to hear one of his lieutenants explaining to
a line of men:

"When pursuing a retreating enemy one of the most effective thrusts
with the bayonet can be delivered right here.  Learn to mark the
spot well."

Half-turning, the lieutenant pointed to the spot in the small
of his own back, before he went on, impressively:

"A bayonet thrust there will drive the blade through a kidney.
I will admit that that doesn't sound like sportsman-like fighting,
but unfortunately we're not to be employed against a really civilized
enemy in this war.  Page, you will stand out.  It isn't a popular
role to which I am going to assign you, but you will run slowly
past me and represent a fleeing enemy.  Dobson, you will take
a blob-stick and chase Page, running just fast enough to overtake
him in front of me.  Then you will give him the kidney thrust,
taking care to make your aim exact.  Thrust with spirit, but do
not hit hard, even with the blob-stick, for Page is not a real
German."

Though the men were perspiring uncomfortably, their officer's
pleasant conversational way and his interesting talk kept the
interest of these young soldiers.  Private Page stepped out and
took post where the lieutenant indicated, prepared to begin running
away at the word of command.  Private Dobson picked up a blob-stick,
a long, wand-like affair intended to represent a rifle and bayonet,
the bayonet's point being represented by a padded ball such as
is seen on a bass drummer's stick.

"Go ahead, Page," commanded the lieutenant.  "Kill him, Dobson!
. . . Good work!  Any enemy, struck like that in earnest, could
safely be left to himself.  Dobson, you be the fleeing enemy this
time.  Aldrich, take the blob-stick."

One after another the men of the skeletonized platoon took their
try with the blob-stick.  As is usual in the run of human affairs,
some of the men made the thrust excellently, others indifferently,
and some missed altogether.

"Rest," ordered the lieutenant, presently, and the men stood at
ease in the platoon line.

"Some of you men do not get hold of this bayonet work as well
as I could wish," Dick spoke up, all eyes turned on him.  "The
man who learns his bayonet work thoroughly has a reasonably good
chance of coming back from Europe alive.  The man who learns it
indifferently has very little chance of seeing his native land
at the close of the war.  Remember that.  Bayonet fighting is
one of the things no American soldier can afford to be dull about.
Lieutenant Morris, if you will pick up a blob-stick we can show
these men some of the value of swift work in the simpler thrusts
and parries."

Each armed with a blob-stick, captain and second lieutenant faced
each other.  Dick, scowling as though facing an enemy whom he
hated, advanced upon his subordinate, making a swift, savage lunge
aimed at the other's abdomen.  In a twinkling the thrust had been
parried by Lieutenant Morris, who, at close quarters, aimed a
vicious jab at his captain's wind-pipe.  That, too, was blocked.
Warming up, the two officers fought without victory for a full
three-quarters of a minute.  Then, at a word from Prescott, each
drew back.

"Every one of you men, by the time you reach France, should be
able to fight faster and better than that," Dick announced.

Down the line an infectious smile ran.  It seemed to these soldiers
impossible that a more skillful or a swifter bit of combat work
could be put up than they had just witnessed.

"You two men, at the right, bring your rifles here," Prescott
ordered, and the bayoneted rifles were brought and handed to the
two officers.

"Now, Lieutenant Morris, the first four series, as fast as we
can go through them," Dick commanded.

Bang!  bump!  flash!  Rifle barrels rang as they crossed; butts
bumped hard against barrel or stock, and glittering steel flashed
in the sunlight as the two infantry officers advanced and retreated
in a savage, realistic contest.  It really seemed as though Lieutenant
Morris and Captain Prescott were bent on annihilating each other.
Could this fierce, mutual onslaught be pretense---play?  Then,
as the last move of the fourth series was executed the two infantry
officers jumped back a step each and dipped the points of their
gleaming blades by way of courtesy.  The other three platoons
of the company had stopped drill to watch.  How the thrilled men
of A company wished to applaud and cheer!

"Lieutenant Morris and I are very poor hands at bayonet work,
compared with what we want you men to be when this regiment sails
for France," Prescott remarked, smilingly, as he handed back the
rifle to its owner.

From that platoon Prescott passed on to others in his company,
offering a remark here and a word of instruction there.

"You men must do everything to get your muscles up to concert
pitch," Captain Prescott announced.  "No lady-like thrusts will
ever push a bayonet into a German's face.  A ton of weight is
needed behind every bayonet thrust or jab!"

An orderly approached, saluting.

"Compliments of the commanding officer, sir, and he will see the
captain in his office at regimental headquarters, sir."

Returning the salute Dick walked off the drill ground as though
he had nothing on his mind.  Down the street he espied Greg, also
going toward headquarters, and hurried after him.  On the other
side of the street was Captain Cartwright, who soon crossed over
to join them.

In silence, the three captains made their way along the street
until they reached regimental headquarters.  It was a low one-story
pine shed, with the colonel's office at one end, the adjutant's
office next to it, and beyond that the rooms occupied by the sergeant
major and his clerical force, and, last of all, the chaplain's
office.

None of the three captains was exactly at ease as they entered the
adjutant's office and reported.

"The commanding officer will see you at once," said the adjutant.
"Pass through into his office."

Colonel Cleaves, glancing up from his desk, gravely returned the
salutes of his three captains.

"Be good enough to close the door into the adjutant's office,
Captain Holmes," directed the K.O.  "Now, gentlemen, I will hear
whatever explanation you have to offer of a very remarkable scene
that I came upon this noon."

All three waited, to see if one of the others wished to speak
first.  After waiting a moment or two Colonel Cleaves asked:

"Captain Prescott, it was you who struck the knock-down blow,
was it not?"

"Yes, sir," Dick answered promptly, "though it followed a parry,
and was more of a thrust than a blow."

"You agree to that, Captain Cartwright?" quizzed the K.O.

"Essentially so, sir."

"There had been a quarrel, had there not?"

"I made a reply to a remark by Captain Cartwright, sir," Greg
supplied, "which, he felt justified in construing as offensive,
though I did not so intend it.  I was annoyed at what I felt to
be an insinuation.  Then Captain Prescott came out of his quarters,
sir, and caught Captain Cartwright's wrist.  When Captain Prescott
released it, Captain Cartwright struck at him.  The blow was parried,
and Captain Cartwright struck once more.  That blow was also parried,
and Captain Cartwright went to the floor."

"Do you concur in that, Captain Cartwright?" asked the K.O.

"Yes, sir."

"By the way, Captain Prescott," went on Colonel Cleaves, handing
him a small piece of paper, "can you account for this?"

As Dick Prescott took the paper and glanced at it he felt himself
turning almost dizzy in bewilderment.




CHAPTER IV

AS IT IS DONE IN THE ARMY


"That is your handwriting, is it not, Captain Prescott?" demanded
the regimental commander.

"It looks just like my handwriting, sir, but I'll swear that I
never wrote it," declared astonished Dick, still staring at the
little piece of paper.

"Yet it resembles your handwriting?"

"Yes, sir.  If I didn't know positively that I didn't write any
such message then I'd be about ready to admit that it is my handwriting.
But I didn't write it, sir."

"Pass it to Captain Holmes.  I will ask him if he has seen this
note before."

"No, sir," declared Greg, very positively, though he, too, was
startled, for it was hard to persuade himself that he was not
looking down at his chum's familiar handwriting.

The note read:

_"Dear H.  Stick to what we agreed upon, and we can cook C's goose
without trouble.  P."_

"May I speak, sir?" asked Dick.

"Yes, Captain."

"Then I desire to say, sir, that I have not the least desire to
see Captain Cartwright in any trouble.  Hence, it would have been
impossible for me to think of writing such a note.  More, sir,
it would have been stupid of me to risk writing such a note, for
Captain Holmes and I sat in my quarters until it was time for
us to leave on our way to our respective company offices."

"And while in your quarters did you discuss this affair of your
trouble with Captain Cartwright?"

"To the best of my recollection, sir, we did not mention it," Dick
declared.

"Is that your recollection, Captain Holmes?"

"Yes, sir."

"And this is not your handwriting, Captain Prescott?"

"I give you my word of honor, sir, that I did not write it, and
did not even discuss the matter with Captain Holmes."

"I do not understand this note in the least," Colonel Cleaves
went on.  "Of course, Captain Prescott, I am bound to accept your
assurance that you did not write this.  I do not know how the
note came here; all I know about it is that I found it on my desk,
under a paper weight, about fifteen minutes ago, when I came in."

"It is the work of some trouble-maker, sir," Greg ventured.

"Do you know anything about this note, Captain Cartwright?"

"No, sir," replied that officer, flushing at the intimation that
he could have had anything to do with it, for Greg had passed
the paper to him.

"I will keep that note, then," said Colonel Cleaves, taking it,
"in the hope that I may later find out how it came to be here.
Captain Cartwright, do you deny that Captain Prescott did no
more than to parry your blows and thrust you back off your balance?"

"That was all he did, sir."

"And you made two distinct efforts to hit him?"

"Y-y-yes, sir."

"Was anything said that, in your opinion, justified you in attempting
to strike a brother officer?"

"At the time I thought Captain Holmes had justified my attempt to \
strike him."

"Do you still think so?"

"N-no, sir.  I was undoubtedly too impetuous."

"And you attempted to strike Captain Prescott only because he
tried to restrain you from striking a brother officer?"

"Yes, sir."

"Is there anything more to be said or explained by any of you
gentlemen?"

"Nothing, sir," came from three pairs of lips.

"Then, since none of you wishes to prefer charges," pursued Colonel
Cleaves, "I will say that the whole affair, as far as it has been
explained to me, looks like a childish quarrel to have taken place
between officers and gentlemen.  On the statements made to me,
I will say that I believe that Captain Cartwright was most to
blame.  I therefore take this opportunity to rebuke him.  Captain
Prescott, of course, you understand that I accept your assurance
that you did not write the note I showed you.  Keep the peace
after this, gentlemen, and make an honest effort to promote
brotherliness of spirit with all the officers of the service, and
especially of this regiment.  That is all."

Saluting, the three captains stepped out into the sunlight.  The
sentry pacing on headquarters post swung his rifle from shoulder
arms down to port arms, then came to present arms before the officers,
who acknowledged his formal courtesy by bringing their hands up
smartly to the brims of their campaign hats.

"Well, that's over!" announced Cartwright, in a tone of relief.

"And will never be repeated," said Greg.

"But you will admit, Holmes, that you've picked a good deal on me,
from time to time," Cartwright pressed, in a half-aggrieved tone.

"I will admit, for you both," smiled Dick, "that you're in danger
of starting something all over again unless you shut up and make
a fresh, better start.  So we won't refer to personal matters
again, but we come to your company's barracks first, Cartwright,
and when we get there we will shake hands and agree to remember
that we're all engaged in a fierce effort to make the Ninety-ninth
the best American regiment."

In silence the three pursued their way to C company's building.
Here they halted.

"To the Ninety-ninth, best of 'em all," proposed Prescott, holding
out his hand to Cartwright, who took and pressed it.

"To the best officers' crowd in the service," quoth Greg.

"Amen to that!" assented Cartwright, though he strode away with
a dull red flush burning on either cheek.

Half an hour later Dick's business took him past the regiment's
guard-house.  As carpenters were everywhere busy in camp putting
up more necessary buildings the place officially known as the
guard-house was more of a bullpen.  Posts had been driven deeply
in the form of a rectangle, and on these barbed wire had been
laid to a height of nine feet.  Within the rectangle guard-house
prisoners could take the air, retiring to either of two tents
inside the enclosure whenever they wished.

As he passed Dick noted, vaguely, that four or five men stood by
the nearer line of barbed wire fence.  He held up his left hand
to glance at his wrist watch.  Just as he turned the hand, to let
it fall at his side, something dropped out of the air, falling
squarely in his hand.  Instinctively Prescott's fingers closed
over the missile.  He glanced, quickly, at the enclosure, but not
one of the men on the other side of the wire was looking
his way.

Then the young captain, keeping briskly on his way, opened his
hand to glance down at his unexpected catch.  It was a piece of
manila paper, wrapped around a stone.

Waiting only until he was some distance from the bull-pen, Dick
unwrapped the paper.

In printed characters, used undoubtedly to disguise handwriting,
was this message:

"Watch for all you're worth the carpenter who talks with Mock!"

"Now, why on earth should I interest myself in the affairs of
Greg's busted sergeant?" Dick wondered.  "And what possible interest
can I have in any carpenter unless he's a friend of mine, or has
business with me?"

On the whole Prescott felt that he was lowering his own dignity
to attach any importance to an anonymous message, plainly from
a guardhouse prisoner.  Yet he dropped the small stone and thrust
the scrap of paper into a pocket for future consideration should
he deem it worth while.




CHAPTER V

THE CAMP CARPENTER'S TALE


After a week of exacting office work and all but endless drill, Dick
had the rare good fortune to find himself with an evening of leisure.

"Going to be busy to-night?" Dick asked Greg at the evening meal
at mess.

"Confound it, yes," returned Captain Holmes.  "I must put in the
time until midnight with Sergeant Lund going over clothing
requisitions for my new draft of men."

"My requisitions are all in, and I expect the clothing supplies
to-morrow morning," Dick continued.

"That is because you got your draft of new men two days earlier than
I did," grumbled Greg.  "You're always the lucky one.  But what are
you going to do to-night that you want company?"

"I thought I'd like to take a walk in the moonlight," Dick responded.

"Great Scott!  Do you mean to tell me you don't get enough walk
in the daytime in the broiling sunlight?"

"Not the same kind of walking," Prescott smiled.  "I want to stroll
to-night and talk.  But if I must go alone, then I shall have
to think."

"Don't attempt hard work after hours," advised Holmes.

"Such as walking?"

"No; thinking."

Dick finished his meal and stepped outside in the air.  The first
to join him was Lieutenant Morris.

"Feel like taking a walk in the moonlight?" Dick asked.

"I'd be delighted, Captain, but to-night I'm officer in charge
at the company barracks."

"True; I had forgotten."

Other officers Dick invited to join him, but all had duty of one
kind or another, or else home letters to write.

"Did I hear you say you were going to take a walk, Prescott?"
asked Major Wells.

"Yes, sir.  By any great good luck are you willing to go with me?"

"I'd like to, Prescott, but as it happens there is the school
for battalion commanders to-night.  A talk on trench orders by
the brigadier is listed, I believe."

"I'm afraid I shall have to go alone," sighed Dick "Yet I've half
a mind to stroll over to company office and invent some new paper
work.  With every one else busy I feel like the only slacker in
the regiment."

"If you really go alone," suggested the major, "perhaps you could
combine pleasure with doing me a favor."

"How, sir?"

"My horse hasn't had any exercise for three days.  I'd be glad
if you'd take him out tonight, if it suits you."

"Nothing could please me better, sir," Dick cried eagerly, for he
dearly loved a horse.

"How soon will you be ready?"

"At once, Major."

"Then I'll send around now for the horse."  Just a few minutes
later an orderly rode up, dismounted, saluted and turned the saddled
animal over to A company's commander.

"This is luck, indeed!" Dick told himself, as he felt the horse's
flanks between his knees and moved off at a slow canter.  "I wonder
why I never tried to transfer into the cavalry."

While waiting for the horse he had telephoned the adjutant, stating
that for the next three hours he would be either in camp or in
the near vicinity.

After being halted by three outlying sentries Prescott rode clear
of the camp bounds, riding at a trot down a moonlit country road.
Vinton was the nearest town, where soldiers on a few hours' pass
went for their recreation out of camp.  The road to Vinton was
usually well sprinkled with jitney busses conveying soldiers to
or from camp, so Prescott had chosen another road which, at night,
was likely to be almost free of traffic of any kind.

"As this is the first evening I've had off in three weeks I don't
believe I need feel that I'm loafing," Dick reflected.  "It's
gorgeous outdoors to-night.  There will undoubtedly be plenty
of moonlight in France, but there won't be many opportunities
like this one."

Finding that his horse was sweating, Dick slowed the animal down
to a walk.  He had ridden along another mile when, near a farmhouse
he espied a soldier in the road, strolling with a young woman.

As the horse gained upon the young couple the soldier glanced
backward, then swung the girl to the side of the road and halted
beside her, drawing himself up to attention and saluting smartly.
The man was Private Lawrence of his own company.

"Good evening," Dick nodded, pleasantly.

"Good evening, sir," replied the private.

Dick didn't ask, as some officers would have done, whether the
soldier had pass to be out of camp.  He could ascertain that on
his return to camp.  Instead, he said:

"You must have this road pretty nearly to yourself, Lawrence,
as far as soldiers go."

"There's at least one other, sir," the soldier replied, in a matter
of fact way.  "I saw one slip by in the field, close to the road.
I won't be sure, but I think it was Private Mock, sir."

"He has friends down this way?" Dick asked casually.

"Not that I ever heard of, sir.  There aren't many houses on this
road.  My friend, Miss Williams, lives in the house up yonder."

At the implied introduction Prescott raised his campaign hat,
then rode on.

The instant that Mock's name had been mentioned it had flashed
through Dick's mind that, when in Greg's office that afternoon,
he had seen Mock's name on Top Sergeant Lund's list of men for
pass, and Greg, he knew, had drawn a pen line through that name.

"Of course it may not have been Mock that Lawrence saw; Lawrence
himself wasn't sure," Dick reflected.  "Yet, if Mock is out of
camp to-night he is out without leave.  Private Lawrence didn't
realize that, or he wouldn't tell tales."

Soon the horse began to move along an up grade road between
two lines of trees.  Finding that the animal, instead of drying
off, was sweating more freely, Dick drew rein and dismounted.

"It's hard work on a hot night, so you and I will walk together
for a while, old pal," Dick confided to the borrowed mount.  "There,
you find it easier, don't you?"

As if to express gratitude the horse bent its head forward, rubbing
against Dick's shoulder.

"Who says horses can't talk plainly, hey, old fellow?" Dick demanded.
On together they walked, until Prescott felt himself perspiring,
while the horse's coat grew dry.

"There, now, friend," said Dick, running a hand over the creature's
flanks, "you're cool and dry, and this is one of the prettiest
spots in Georgia, so I reckon I'll tie you and rest until I, too,
am dry again."

Having tied the horse by the bridle reins, Dick strolled about,
enjoying the dark and quiet after the bright electric lights and
the bustle of camp.  Presently he strolled down the road until
he came to a break in the trees on his right.  Though the moon
had gone partly behind a cloud Dick found himself gazing down
a clearing.  He would not have been interested, had it not been
that he caught sight of the unmistakable silhouette of a soldier,
and, beside him, a somewhat stoop-shouldered man in darker garb.

"Why, I wonder if that can be Mock, and his carpenter?" reflected
Prescott, recalling the note that had dropped so mysteriously
into his extended palm.

Screened behind a bush Dick watched the pair until he saw them
coming toward the road.  Then Prescott drew back, finding better
shelter, but he did not seek complete concealment.  It occurred
to him to wait there, in silence, and see if Private Mock displayed
any uneasiness on coming face to face with his captain's chum.

"That will be a good way, perhaps, to test out the note," Prescott
decided.

Though the two men appeared to be talking earnestly, only a mumble
of voices reached Dick's ears when the men were no more than thirty
feet away.  Then they stepped into the road, where they halted
hardly more than a dozen feet away from the screened captain.

"It's a pity you wouldn't have your nerve," said the stranger,
to Mock.  "You tell me you hate your captain."

"Wouldn't you, if he had treated you like he treated me?" demanded
Mock heatedly.

"Surely I would," agreed the stranger.

"And there's Holmes's friend, that fellow Prescott, who, he, you
say, would spend all his time looking into anything that happened
to Holmes.  You could settle with them both, and then there'd
be no one left to worry about."

"Say, just what are you thinking of doing to 'em?" demanded Mock,
in a tone of uneasy suspicion.

"There are two things that could be done to them," continued the
civilian.  "One would be to put them out of the way altogether, and
the other would be to bring disgrace upon them so that they'd be
kicked out of the Army.  That would break their hearts, wouldn't it?"

"Yes," muttered Mock, "but you're talking dreams, neighbor.  I'm
no black-hander, to creep up behind them with a knife, or take
a pot shot at them.  I'm not quite that kind, neighbor, and it
couldn't be done, anyway."

"You could put 'em out of the way, and no one would be the wiser,"
hinted the stranger.

"How?"

"I'll show you, when I'm sure enough that you're game," declared
the civilian.  "I'd have to be sure you had the nerve."

"I haven't," admitted Private Mock.

"Do you know, I began to think that before you admitted it?" sneered
the other.

"Not the way you mean," flared up the ex-sergeant.  "I can be
mean in order to get square with a mean officer.  But I can get
along without putting him under the sod.  I'm a good hater, but
my mother didn't raise me to be a real crook."

"You're a quitter, I guess," jeered the other.  "Anyway, if you
claim to be a man of sand you'll have to show me."

"And I guess it's about time that you showed me something, too,"
challenged Mock, looking furtively at the stoop-shouldered man.

"I'm ready enough to show you a whole lot of things, when I find
out that you're man enough to stand up for yourself and pay back
those who treat you like dirt," retorted the other.

"There's one thing you can show me, first of all," challenged Mock.

"Yes?  What?"

"Show me why you're so anxious to have harm happen to Captain
Holmes and Captain Prescott."

"Because I like you; because I'm a friend of yours," returned
the stoop-shouldered one.

"You're a pretty new friend," Mock went on.  "I never saw you
until that day when the captain caught me shirking and told off
two men to prod me back into camp."

"That was the time for you to know me," declared the other brazenly.
"That was the time when you needed a friend to show you how to get
square like a man instead of like a coward and a quitter."

"Be careful with your names!" commanded Mock harshly.  "Say, Mr.
Man, who are you, and what are you?"

"Private Mock, I believe I can answer that question for you!" broke
in Captain Dick Prescott, stepping out from behind his leafy screen.




CHAPTER VI

THE ENEMY IN CAMP BERRY


"Captain Prescott!" uttered Mock, starting back in dismay.

"Donner und blitzen!" (thunder and lightning) ejaculated the
stoop-shouldered one.

"The fellow has just answered your question for you," Dick went
on, pointing an accusing finger at the stranger.  "You know what
language he was betrayed into using just now."

"German, sir," said Mock.

"That's right," nodded Prescott.

"Is he one of them Kaiser-hound spies, sir?" demanded Mock, stung
to wrath and throwing grammar to the winds.  "Why, I've dreamed
of catching one and tearing him to pieces.  With your permission,
sir-----!"

Not stopping to finish Mock threw himself upon the stoop-shouldered
one, But that worthy had foreseen it, and adroitly stopped the
ex-sergeant with a blow on the end of the nose that dazed him for
an instant.

"I'll take care of him, Mock!" cried Captain Dick, leaping forward.
As he did so the stranger turned and fled.  No longer stoop-shouldered,
but bearing himself like an athlete, the unknown turned and darted
away, Prescott racing after him.

"Get back!" warned the fugitive, drawing an automatic revolver and
flourishing it over his head.

Though unarmed, save for his fists, Prescott continued to pursue
with all speed.  After both of them raced Private Mock.

Dick was gaining when he stepped on a round stone, slipped and
fell.  Mock dashed after him.  The fleeing German halted long
enough to hurl the automatic pistol at Mock's face, then turned
and ran on.  Naturally the soldier dodged the missile, which struck
the ground behind him.  Thinking the weapon might be useful, Mock
halted, then ran back and secured the pistol, after which he started
to give chase.  But the fugitive had vanished in the darkness.

"Come back here and surrender, before I shoot," bluffed Mock, but
the German did not answer.

To Mock's intense astonishment Dick reached over, snatching the
pistol from his hand.

"That will be about all, Private Mock," said Prescott sternly.
"You've bluffed your part well, and helped your friend to escape,
but at all events I've got you!"

"Do you---" began the soldier, but stopped, further words failing
him.  Dick gripped the man's arm, giving a significant pressure
before he said:

"You'll come along with me, Mock, and it will be worse for you
if you try any further monkey-shines with me."

He gave another pressure on Mock's arm as he finished.  Without
a word Mock walked with him to where the horse was tied.

"Untie that bridle and buckle the ends together," Dick ordered.

This done, the captain mounted, taking the bridle in his left
hand, retaining the automatic pistol in his right.

"March ahead, Mock.  Don't try to bolt unless you want me to shoot."

In this manner they proceeded back over the road.  Mile after
mile they covered, meeting no one until they had come in sight
of the camp, nestling in the broad valley below.

At this point such an extensive view could be had that Dick felt
sure there was no eavesdropper.  So he dismounted, calling the
soldier to him and asking in a whisper:

"Mock, you were simply a poor, shirking soldier, weren't you?
You are, at heart, loyal to your country's Flag, aren't you?"

"I'd die for the Stars and Stripes, sir!" Mock declared, in a voice
choked with emotion.

"But I felt tired, the other day, and I got a notion Captain Holmes
was down on me.  So I went bad and got busted.  Then I hated Captain
Holmes, sir, and ached for a chance to get square with him.  Then
that accursed carpenter fellow hunted me out, talked with me,
and made me think he was my friend.  If I had known he was a
Kaiser-hound I'd have split his head open at the first crack out
of the box."

"I didn't doubt you as a loyal man, Mock," Dick continued, in
a whisper.  "I spoke to you the way I did back on the road because
I was sure the fellow was near and listening.  I didn't care much
about catching him to-night because I hope to catch him later on,
and get him even more red-handed.  Mock, you're loyal, and I'm
going to put your loyalty, if you consent, to a hard, bitter test."

Dick went on in an even lower tone, Mock listening in growing
astonishment, without replying a word, though he nodded
understandingly.

"So, now," Prescott wound up, "I'm going to continue into camp with
you still a prisoner and be mighty hard on you.  However, I won't
hold the pistol on you any longer."

Into camp Dick marched the soldier, then over toward the buildings
of the Ninety-ninth, and thence along to the bull-pen.

"Sergeant of the guard!" Prescott called briskly, and that
non-commissioned officer appeared.

"Take charge of Private Mock as a prisoner, charged with being
absent from camp without leave or pass," Dick ordered.  "I will
report my action to Captain Holmes, who will dispose of his case."

From there Dick led the horse back to B company barracks, turned
the animal over to an orderly and went into the company office,
where, as he had expected, he found Greg immersed in a grind of
paper work.  For a few minutes Dick talked earnestly with his chum
in low tones, Captain Holmes frequently nodding.

"And now, I think I had better go down to the adjutant's office,
to see if he's still at his desk," Dick finished, "and, if so, make
my report."

"You'll stagger him," Greg predicted.

One of Greg's orderlies had already ridden the major's horse to
the stable, so Prescott walked briskly along the street until
he came to regimental headquarters.  As he entered the adjutant's
office he found Colonel Cleaves seated on the corner of his
subordinate's desk, in low-toned conversation with his subordinate.

"Am I intruding, sir?" Dick inquired, saluting the colonel.

"No," said Colonel Cleaves.  "In fact, Captain, you may as well
know the subject-matter of our conversation.  Captain Prescott,
this camp would appear to be infested with German spies!  This
evening sixteen men in F company were taken ill after supper.
They are now in hospital and some of them are expected to die.
The surgeons have examined some of the food left over from that
supper and report finding ground glass in some pieces of the apple
pie served as dessert.  Later the captain of our machine-gun company,
which has only one machine gun so far, had the piece taken into
the company mess-room to demonstrate the mechanism to his lieutenants
so that they might instruct the men.  He found the mechanism of
the piece so badly jammed that the machine gun refused to work.
I have inspected that piece, and in my opinion the gun is ruined.
As if that were not enough sixteen rifles belonging to G company
have been found with their bolts broken off.  It is very plain
that German spies and sympathizers are at work in Camp Berry,
and the scoundrels must be found, Captain."

Colonel Cleaves spoke under the stress of great excitement, his
eyes flashing, the corners of his mouth twitching.

Dick went to the door, then to the doors opening into the rooms
on either side.  Then he came back, saying in a low voice:

"Colonel, I met one of the German spies tonight.  Perhaps the
ring-leader.  If I see him again I shall recognize him and arrest
him instantly.  Do you see what this is, sir?"

Dick held up the weapon that the carpenter had hurled at Private
Mock.

"It is a 45-caliber, United States Government automatic pistol,"
said Colonel Cleaves.

"Exactly, sir; and the spy I have mentioned had it in his possession.
How he obtained it, I do not yet know, but I hope to find out.  And
now, sir, I will tell you what happened and what action I took."

Thereupon Captain Dick Prescott narrated the amazing adventure
of the evening, winding up with:

"So, sir, I have placed Private Mock in arrest at the guard-house,
and through his detention there I hope to gain the clues that shall
lead us to the ferreting out and arrest of the whole crew of German
spies at Camp Berry!"




CHAPTER VII

AT GRIPS WITH GERMAN SPIES


New barracks buildings continued to spring up at Camp Berry.  Drafts
of men for a National Army division began to arrive, besides
a brigade of infantry, a regiment of field artillery and a
machine-gun battalion of regulars.

Brigadier-General Bates arrived to take command of the regulars,
while Major-general Timmins assumed command of the National Army
division and became commanding general of the camp as well.

New batches of recruits, constantly arriving for the regulars,
soon gave the Ninety-ninth an average of a hundred and eighty
men to the company, or forty-five men to each platoon.  Drill
went on as nearly incessantly during daylight as the men could
endure.

"In my opinion it won't be very long before the Ninety-ninth goes
over and reports to General Pershing," Dick told his chum.  "At
the rate our ranks are being filled up we'll soon have a full-strength
regiment."

"But most of our men are still recruits," Holmes objected.  The
regiment really isn't anywhere near fit for foreign service."

"It won't be so many weeks before we're ordered abroad," Dick
insisted.  "Wait and see whether I'm right."

Wonderful indeed was the speed with which buildings were erected.
The record time for constructing a two-story building with an
office, supply room, mess-room and sleeping quarters for two hundred
and fifty men was ninety minutes!

Fast, too, was the work done by the Regular Army regiments, which
had this advantage over the National Army regiments, that most of
their officers were trained regulars and a large proportion of them
West Point graduates.

Of the sixteen men made ill by eating powdered glass not one died,
for the glass had been ground too fine to do the utmost mischief.
However, the camp was alarmed, and all food was kept under close
guard and was regularly examined with care before being served.

Soldiers bearing German names were in some instances suspected,
and unjustly.  Officers tried to undo this harm by talking among
the men.  Yet all wondered what would be the next outbreak of
spy work in camp.

Private Mock, sentenced to two weeks' arrest for being off the
reservation without leave, served his sentence moodily, usually
refusing to talk with his fellow-prisoners.

One Private Wilhelm was also serving a term in arrest at the bull-pen.
His name was held against him Wilhelm as a brand-new man in the
regiment, and one of the few with whom Mock would talk.

One morning the latter was overheard to say:

"I'm sick of this war already.  I hope the Germans win.  If I'm
sent over to France I'll watch my chance to desert and get over
to the Germans."

"Oh, ye will, will ye?" demanded Private Riley, another prisoner
in the bull-pen.  "Ye dir-rty blackguard!"

Buff!  The Irish soldier's fist caught Mock squarely on the jaw,
sending him squarely to earth, though not knocking him out.  After
a moment Mock was on his feet again, quivering with rage.  He
flew at Riley, who was a smaller man, hammering him hard.  Other
soldier-prisoners interfered on behalf of Riley, whereupon Private
Wilhelm, a heavily built fellow, rushed to Mock's aid.

"A German and a German sympathizer!"

With that yell a dozen or so of time prisoners set upon the pair.
Some lively and perhaps nearly deadly punishment would have been
handed out, had not several men of the guard rushed in, thrusting
with their rifle butts and breaking up the unequal fight.

But Mock was reported for his utterance, and Wilhelm for his
sympathies.  Both were brought up before Captain Greg Holmes, and
Dick was sent for to join in questioning the men, which was done
behind closed doors.  At the end of the hearing Mock and Wilhelm
were returned to the guard-house looking much crestfallen.

"Did you hear what they said to me?" Mock was overheard to demand
of Wilhelm.  "Said they'd have me tried for saying I'd desert,
and that I'd be likely to get several years in prison for talking
too much.  Oh, I'm sure sick of being in this man's army!"

"Sure!" nodded Wilhelm, understandingly.  "It's tough!"

"It'll be tougher, I warrant ye, if we hear ye two blackguards
using any more of your line of talk around here," Riley broke
in.  "The guar-rd won't be forever stopping our pounding ye!"

After that Mock and Wilhelm were left severely alone by their
fellow-prisoners in the bull-pen.  Most of these men were serving
merely sentences of a day to a week for minor infractions of
discipline.

The next morning Private Riley managed to get word to Greg that
Private Brown, of the guard, had been talking with Mock at the
barbed wire of the pen enclosure.

"Private Brown is supposed to be an all right soldier, but he'll
bear watching," was Dick's comment when he heard the report.

That afternoon it was reported that both Mock and Wilhelm had
been talking with Private Brown at the barbed wire fence.  Dick
smiled grimly when he heard it.

The next morning orders were read releasing Mock, Wilhelm, Riley
and some of the other soldier prisoners ahead of time that they
might not be deprived of too much instruction.  The released ones
were cautioned to be extremely careful, in the future, not to
fall under the disciplinary ban.

"Sure, I can understand some of us getting out, but not Mock,"
declared Riley to a bunkie (chum).  "Him an' his talk about deserting
to the enemy!"

In the meantime Dick had given an accurate description of the
carpenter who had tried to enlist Mock in some dangerous scheme
of revenge.  The fellow had disappeared from among the gang of
carpenters, and that was all that was known.  Secret Service men
had been put on the trail, but had failed to find the fellow.

"Now, maybe a soldier sometimes says more than he means," broke
in Sergeant Kelly, who had come up behind the pair on the nearly
deserted drill ground.  "Soldiers are like other people in that
respect."

"But not Mock," Riley objected.  "He's a bad egg."

"I don't say he isn't," Kelly rejoined.  "What I'm advising you
is not to conclude that a man is worthless just because he talks.
For that matter, Riley, I believe that the men we have most to
fear are spies who manage to get in the Army, talk straight and
do their work well, and all the time they're plotting all kinds
of mischief.  Like the fellow or the chaps who put that powdered
glass in the chow of F company not long ago."

"Here's hoping I live to see Mock hanged!" grumbled Private Riley,
as Sergeant Kelly moved away.

Kelly, who had served as sergeant with Dick in other regiments,
had followed him into the Ninety-ninth.  Prescott rejoiced that
he had this excellent fellow with him, as capable first sergeants
are always looked upon in the light of prizes.

Yet, in a---to him---new man Greg Holmes had an almost equally
good top in Lund, a Swede who had put in ten years in the Army.

When Greg dropped into the company office that forenoon, Lund
handed him a list of men who had put in application for pass that
afternoon.  It was to be a visitors' afternoon, and there would
be no drills.

"Nineteen, and all good conduct men, Sergeant Lund," commented
Greg, glancing over the list and reaching for a pencil with which
to O.K. the list.

"And two more put in application, but I didn't put their names
down, sir," Lund explained, as he stood at the side of the young
captain at the desk.

"Who were they?"

"Mock and Wilhelm."

"Have they behaved themselves since they got out of arrest?"

"Oh, yes, sir."

"Then we'll let them off this afternoon," proposed Holmes amiably,
as he wrote time two names down on the list.  "Perhaps they'll turn
out better for a bit of considerate treatment."

Though Lund frowned as he received the list back in his own hand
he made no comment.

Immediately after the noon meal Mock and Wilhelm exhibited their
passes to the guard and walked briskly out of camp.

"Look at that now---the pair of traitors!" muttered Private Riley,
as he spat vengefully on the ground.  "Me, I knew better than
to ask for it, and me so lately out of the pen.  But those bir-rds
with dir-rty feathers get their chance to go off the reservation
and plot more mischief."

Had Private Riley been able to follow the pair unseen he would
have been even angrier.  Mock and Wilhelm, stepping briskly along
the road over which Dick had ridden that eventful evening, kept
on for some three miles, then turned abruptly off into the forest.

For another half mile they kept on, going further and further from
the road.

"Here's the spot," said Mock, after some hunting under the trees.
"It must be the place, for it has the nail driven into the tree
trunk."

"Sure, it's the place all right," Wilhelm agreed.

Mock emitted a shrill whistle that would not, however, carry very
far.  Instantly there came an answering whistle.

"And here we are!" spoke up the stoop-shouldered stranger, coming
out of a.  jungle of bushes.  "I'm glad to see that you're on
time.  And to-day I hope you've more sand than you had that night."

"Forget it," said Mock shortly.

"You're ready now?"

"To do anything," Mock agreed.

"Sure!  He's all right!" Private Wilhelm nodded.  "I've attended
to that."

"Come here, Carl!" called the stoop-shouldered one, in a low voice.

From another clump of bushes came another man, bearded and
bespectacled.  If there's anything in a face, Carl was unmistakably
German.

"Carl will tell you what to do," said time stoop-shouldered one.

"You men are in two different companies?" asked the man behind
spectacles.

"I'm in B company," nodded Mock.  "Wilhelm is in E company."

"Then you can take care of two companies of men," Carl went on.
"Do to-morrow morning what I'm going to tell you.  See these?"

The bespectacled one held up two vials that he had taken from
a pocket.

"Each one of you takes one of these," he went on.  "Hide them
to-night where you please.  In the morning, when the men in your
barracks hang their bedding out of the windows and go down to
breakfast, stay behind.  Uncork a vial, each of you, and sprinkle
the liquid in here on the bedding of at least half a dozen soldiers.
You understand?  Then slip down to your breakfasts."

"What's in these vials?" asked Mock, taking the one offered him
and curiously inspecting the liquid in it.

"Germs!" said the bespectacled one.  "Measles.  Do as I tell you,
and in a few days measles will begin to run through the two companies
like wildfire.  In a few days more it ought to be well through
the regiment.  Tomorrow night slip out of camp and come here.
Under those bushes over there you'll find civilian clothing.
Understand?  Yes?  In the pockets of each suit you'll find the
money to pay for your work.  Take off your uniforms and put on
the other clothes.  Then go where you please, but be sure to keep
out of time Army after this, for American soldiers are going to
die fast!  The money you'll find will take care of you.  Yes?"

"Yes!" nodded Mock.  "Sure!"

Then, suddenly, Mock turned and whistled.

"You two men will throw up your hands!" came in the sharp tones
of Captain Dick Prescott, as he, Sergeant Kelly and four privates
stepped into view.

"You sneak!" yelled the stoop-shouldered one, making a rush at
Mock and trying to seize the vial.  But Mock dodged.  In the same
instant the bespectacled German tried to snatch the other vial
away from Wilhelm, but that soldier, too, dodged and saved the
vial.

"On the ground is a good place for you!" growled Sergeant Kelly,
knocking the stoop-shouldered stranger flat.  Then, before the
fellow could rise Kelly had snapped handcuffs his wrists.

Two of the soldiers seized the bespectacled German just as he
started to run.  He, too, felt the clasp of steel around his wrists.
Though Kelly and the four privates were armed with automatic
pistols no weapon had been drawn.

"Twice you've played the sneak, you!" hissed the stoop-shouldered
one, glaring at Private Mock.

"Twice more I'll do it to help Uncle Sam," retorted Mock, with
a short laugh.  "I owed it to you to see you caught!"

"But you're a German!" hissed the bespectacled one at Wilhelm.
"Why did you turn on us, who are also German?"

"My father was a German; he's an American now," said Wilhelm,
coolly.  "Me, I've always been an American, and I'm one now, and
will be as long as I live."

"Let me have those vials," Dick ordered.  "Sergeant, take these,
and mark them as soon as you get back to company office.  Then
we'll turn them over to the medical department.  Sergeant, march
your prisoners."

Heading toward the road Sergeant Kelly and his four soldiers led
the German captives away.

Captain Dick, with Mock and Wilhelm, followed, but did not attempt
to keep up with the sergeant's party,

When Kelly showed up in camp again he did not have his prisoners
with him.  He had taken them elsewhere, and they were soon on
their way to an internment camp, where, like "good" Germans in
America, they would live until the close of the war, cut off from
all further chance to plot against Uncle Sam's soldiers.

Halting at a farm-house on the way, Dick telephoned to regimental
headquarters.  Two minutes after his message had been received
Private Brown, white-faced and haggard, was placed under arrest.
Under grilling, he confessed what Secret Service men had already
learned---that his name was really spelled B-r-a-u-n; that both
he and his father were German subjects, and that the young man
had enlisted for the sole purpose of playing the spy and the plotter
in the Army.

It had been Mock's talk of deserting in France that had caused Braun
to talk to Mock, who had been told by Captain Prescott to talk in
that vein while in the bull-pen.  Braun had fallen into the trap.

As for Wilhelm---which wasn't the young an's real name---he was
the son of a German-born father, but a young man of known loyalty
to the United States.  He wasn't a soldier, but a War Department
agent who had donned the uniform for a purpose, and had come to
Camp Berry with a draft of real soldiers.

And this was the plan that Dick had worked out following his pretended
arrest of Mock that night up the road.  Mock, resolved to become
a good soldier again, had undergone his humiliation in the bull-pen,
and the scorn of his fellow-prisoners, in order to trap the
stoop-shouldered German, a pretended carpenter, but really August
Biederfeld, a German spy.  The bespectacled one, Dr. Carl Ebers,
was another spy.  The two had delivered their messages in camp
through Braun.

While the pair Ebers and Biederfeld were interned, Braun, as one
who had enlisted in the Army and had taken the oath of service,
was court-martialed on a charge of high treason, and shot for
his crimes.  Before his death he confessed that it was he who
had shaken the powdered glass in the food of F company, the stuff
having been supplied by Dr. Ebers.  It was Braun, also, who had
damaged the machine gun and worked havoc with infantry rifles,
he, too, had forged and placed the pretended Prescott note about
"Cooking Cartwright's goose."

"Wilhelm" soon vanished, undoubtedly to do other work as an alleged
German sympathizer elsewhere.  As for Mock:

"Private James Mock, B company, having suffered humiliation and
scorn that he might better fulfil his oath and serve his country,
is hereby restored to his former rank of sergeant in B company,
and with full honor, he will be obeyed and respected accordingly."

So ran the official order published to the regiment.

The liquid in the two vials was found to be swarming with measles
germs that would have started a veritable epidemic at Camp Berry.

Captain Dick Prescott's quick thinking and steady action had resulted
in the capture of the German spies who were seeking to destroy
the Ninety-ninth.

No quiet days, however, were in store for the regiment.




CHAPTER VIII

WITH THE CONSCIENTIOUS OBJECTORS


"No other business, Sergeant?" asked Dick, one October morning,
as he looked up from the desk in company office at his "top."

"Among the nineteen National Army men drafted into this regiment,
sir, are three conscientious objectors who ask to be transferred
to some non-fighting branch of the service."

"Send for them," ordered Dick briefly, a frown settling on his brow.

Privates Ellis, Rindle and Pitson speedily reported in the office,
saluting, then standing at attention.

"You men are all conscientious objectors?" Prescott asked coldly.

"Yes, sir," said the three together.

"You all have conscientious objections to being hurt?" Prescott
went on.

"I have conscientious scruples against killing a human being, sir,"
replied Private Ellis.

"And you also have scruples against giving him a chance to kill
you," Dick went on mercilessly.  "You believe in a police force
for preserving order in a community, do you?"

"Y-yes, sir."

"If you found a burglar in your home, and had an opportunity, you
would send for a policeman?"

"Yes, sir," Ellis admitted.

"Even though you knew the policeman might find it necessary to kill
the burglar in attempting to arrest him?" Prescott quizzed.

"Yes, sir."

"Then, while you presumably would not kill a burglar yourself you
would not object to calling a policeman who might do it?"

Private Ellis began to suspect the trap into which he was falling.

"I could not bear to kill the burglar myself, sir," he replied.

"And you would not want the burglar to kill you, so you would
summon a policeman to do whatever killing might be necessary.
In that case, are you a moral objector to killing, or are you
merely a coward who relies on another to do the killing for you?"

Private Ellis appeared much confused.

"Answer me," Dick commanded.

"The case doesn't seem the same to me, sir, as serving as a fighting
man in the war."

"The case is exactly the same, except in the matter of magnitude,"
Prescott retorted.  "Germany is the burglar, trying to break into
the house of the world.  You haven't time necessary courage to
fight a German yourself, but you will be glad to see a braver man
serve on the firing line in your stead.  And you are a conscientious
objector, too, are you, Rindle?"

"I---I thought I was, sir," confessed the soldier.  "Your questions,
sir, and your way of putting the case confuse me."

"And you, Pitson?" Dick demanded, eyeing the third man.  "Knowing
that, if you are sent to some non-combatant work, some other man
will have to be sent to this company to do your killing work for
you, you wish to dodge fighting duty?"

"Yes, sir; I do," Pitson answered unhesitatingly.

"Pitson, consider the matter seriously and try to decide whether
you're a moral hero or a physical coward!"

"Sir, I am no mor-----"

Here the man hesitated, growing red in the face.

"Out with it," Dick smiled coolly.

"I am a conscientious objector, sir," Pitson rejoined.  "No matter
what punishment may await me for refusing, I _must_ decline to
accept any duty that may call upon me to kill another human being."

"Yet you would call a policeman, in the case of finding a burglar
in your house?"

"Not if I thought the policeman would have to kill the burglar,
sir," Pitson protested.

"I'll wager the fellow is lying, at that," Prescott reflected,
as he rose.  "Take off your hat, Pitson."

The soldier obeyed.  His forehead sloped up and back.  The back
of his head sloped up and forward, so that the top of his head was
pointshaped.

"I've been interested in seeing what the head of a real conscientious
objector looked like," Dick remarked slowly.  "I've seen your
head and from its shape I believe you to be a real conscientious
objector.  I am going to approve your transfer to a non-combatant
branch, Pitson.  You may step outside until you are sent for again."

After Pitson had gone Dick ordered the two remaining men to remove
their campaign hats.  He studied the shapes of their heads so
attentively that both young men winced plainly under the inspection.

"Your heads are shaped differently from Pitson's," Prescott went
on.  "The top of his head goes up to a point.  If a mule had a
head shaped like that our veterinary surgeons would call it a
fool mule and reject it.  But you men have heads expressing more
intelligence.

"What is the matter with you two?  Have you been listening to
socialistic or other freak talk?  Do you realize that the German
Kaiser and his nation threaten the freedom of the world?  Do you
realize that the Germans want to rule this world, and do you know
how they would rule it, and what a miserable, impossible world
it would be for free men to live in?

"Do you realize that the only way we can stop the Germans from
ruling the world in their own brutal way is for the free men
of all good nations to fight?  Do you fully understand that we
cannot fight such a beastly enemy in any other way than by killing
him?  Do you so thoroughly object to fighting that you would see
a free world ground under the heel of the despotic Kaiser sooner
than help kill his soldiers and thus prevent such a world-wide
tragedy?  Are you men, or are you dish-rags?  Are your consciences
so important that you would put the world in cruel bondage rather
than violate your own little personal ideas of what is moral?
Are you men so sure you're right that you'd dodge a slight wrong---if
wrong it be---and allow the greatest wrong ever attempted to triumph?
Do your moral principles tell you that it is better to let Shame
rule the world instead of Justice?"

Ellis and Rindle were plainly non-plussed by Dick's passionate
appeal to their broader sense of right and truth.

"I'm afraid you two have been patting yourselves on the back in
the idea that you stood out for a great moral principle," Captain
Prescott resumed.  "Don't you begin to see that the fact is that,
instead, you're really moral slackers who'd let the world go into
the devil's keeping provided you didn't have to be made to do
something that you don't want to do?  I won't say you're physical
cowards, for honestly I hardly think you are, but aren't you at
least moral slackers?"

Private Ellis swallowed hard before he replied:

"No, sir; I'm not a moral slacker, for I've changed my mind.
I'm going to fight if I'm told to.  I'm going to do whatever Uncle
Sam wants me to do.  You've put the matter in a different light
to me, Captain Prescott."

"And you, Rindle?"

"I'm going to do myself the honor of asking permission to remain
in your company, sir," replied the second man, his mouth twitching.
"I'm a bit of a fool, sir.  But I don't believe that I'm a fool
all the way through.  I believe that I can see at least part of
a truth when it's put to me fairly, and now I believe that it's
right to fight for truth and justice as against black tyranny---and
I'm ready to do it."

"Good enough!" cried Dick, his face lighting up, as he held out
his hand.  "If you have any further doubts, later, come to me.
I don't know everything, but we can get together and perhaps
between us we can get close to the truth."

Shaking hands with the soldiers who had found themselves, and
dismissing them, Dick added:

"Sergeant Kelly, find out what non-combatant branch that fellow
Pitson would prefer to serve in, see what unit will have him, and
then bring the transfer papers to me to sign."

Passing into the corridor, and hearing the piano's notes in the
mess-room he glanced inside.  It was a rest period between drills,
and a soldier seated at the instrument strummed his way through
the air of a mournful ditty.  It's an odd thing that when the
average soldier is wholly cheerful he prefers the "sobful" melodies.

At one of the long mess tables near the piano sat four young men,
paying no heed to the music, nor, in fact, doing anything in
particular.

"How many of you men have mothers?" Prescott asked with a smile.

All admitted that they had.

"How many of you have written that mother to-day?"

None had.

"How many wrote her yesterday?" None.

"Think hard," Dick went on.  "Has any of you written his mother
a letter within five days?"

One soldier asserted that he had written his mother four days before.

"I wish you men would do me a favor," Dick went on.  "Each one
of you write his mother at least a four-page letter and mail it
before supper.  There is going to be time enough between drills
to-day.  How about it?"

Each of the four soldiers standing at attention promised promptly.

"All right, then," Prescott nodded.  "Rest!" Whereupon they resumed
their seats on the bench.  "Remember that a promise is a promise.
And I've seen enough of soldiers to know that they're likely to
be careless where it hurts most."

"I'd do anything Captain Prescott asked me to do," remarked one
of the soldiers when Dick had passed on out of barracks.

"If I knew anything he wanted me to do I'd do it before he asked
me," declared another.

When a captain's men feel that way about him it's a cinch that
he commands a real fighting unit.




CHAPTER IX

ORDERS FOR "OVER THERE"


During the next drill period Sergeant Kelly, hearing an angry
voice, glanced out through the window.

In the last draft to the company some green recruits had come in,
men who had been drafted to the National Army and sent to the
Regulars to fill up.  Among them were Privates Ellis and Rindle.

"About face!" rapped out the crisp tones of Corporal Barrow, as
he glared at eight men in double rank.

Badly enough most of them turned.  "You poor mutt-heads!" rasped
the corporal.  "Do you think you'll ever make soldiers?"

In a jiffy Kelly reached for his campaign hat, put it on, and
stepped out into the corridor, passing out and heading for the
drill ground.

"Right dress!" called out Corporal Barrow.  "Front!  Rotten!
I wonder if you fellows think you'll ever be soldiers?"

Plainly the recruits were chafing under the lash of the corporal's
tongue.  But Barrow, a young man of twenty-two, who had received
his chevrons after only four months of service, was in no mind
to be easily pleased to-day.

"You're the most stupid squad in the regiment!" the young non-com
went on.  "Your place is in the bullpen, not in the ranks."

"Let the squad rest a minute or two, Corporal, and come with me,"
Sergeant Kelly called placidly.  "I've a message far you."

Giving the required order, and lull of curiosity, Corporal Barrow
stepped quickly over to Kelly, who, placing a hand on the young
man's shoulder, walked him some distance away.  Suddenly the top
sergeant, his back turned to the squad, grilled Barrow with a
blazing gaze.

"You poor boob in uniform!" rapped the sergeant.  "Whatever made
you think of taking up soldiering.  And what made you think yourself
fit to be in a regiment of Regulars?  Do you know your left foot
from your right?  You know as much about the manual of arms as I do
about Hebrew verbs.  When you salute an officer you're a standing
disgrace to the service!  Do you know what you ought to be doing
in life?"

His face growing violently red, Barrow soon forgot to be indignant
in the excess of his wonder.

"Meaning---what?" he demanded, thickly, his lower jaw sagging
in bewilderment.

"How do you like the way I'm talking to you?" asked Sergeant Kelly,
his own strong jaw thrust out as though he were seeking to provoke
a quarrel.

"Why do you ask?" demanded the corporal, with some show of spirit.
"Does any man enjoy being spoken to like a thieving dog?"

Instantly Kelly dropped back into a placid tone.

"How do you think the men of that squad like hearing you talk
to them as I've just talked to you?"

"But they're such numbskulls!" declared Barrow.

"You won't improve their intelligence by turning the hot water
on them all the time," Sergeant Kelly continued.  "Could I make
a better corporal of you by scorching you every time I saw you?"

"You know you couldn't."

"No more can you turn those rookies into soldiers by raging at
them every time you speak.  Take it from me, Corporal Barrow,
the wise drill-master doesn't use any rough talk once a week,
and not even then unless nothing else will answer.  Talk to the
men right along as I heard you doing, and they won't have a particle
of respect for you.  That being the case, you cannot teach them
anything that it will be worth their while to know.  If the captain
had heard what I heard you saying to those men he'd put you back
in the awkward squad yourself.  Patience is the first thing a
drill-master needs.  Whom do you call the smartest corporal in
the company?"

"Corporal Smedley," Barrow answered, without hesitation.

"Right, and he's going to be the next new sergeant.  But Smedley
is the most patient drill-master in the company.  Shall I send him
over to show you how to handle a green squad?"

"Don't, Sergeant!"

"All right, then; I won't---unless you give me new reason to think
it necessary," smiled Kelly.  Then his hand, still resting on the
younger man's shoulder, he walked back to where the squad waited.

"I'll tell you more about it any time you want to know," was Kelly's
last statement before he turned away.

"Attention!" called Corporal Barrow briskly.  "Saluting is one
of the things a new soldier is likely to do badly at first.  I'm
going to put you through a few minutes of it."

This time Barrow patiently singled out the soldier giving the
poorest salute.

"You don't bring your hand up smartly enough," Barrow explained
patiently.  "Try it again.  No; don't bring it up with a jerk.
Do it like this---smartly, without jerk.  No; that's not right,
either.  Hold your hand horizontally when it touches your hat-brim.
Hold it the way I am doing.  Don't be in a hurry to let hand
fall, either.  When saluting an officer, keep the hand at the
hat-brim until he has returned the salute, or you've passed him.
There, you have it right now, Rindle.  Do it three times more,
dropping your hand when I see you and return the salute.  That's
it.  Good work.  Try it again, all together.  Squad, salute!"

"Well done, Corporal," chimed in the voice of Captain Prescott,
who had come up behind the instructor, "Be sure that the squad
has drill enough in the salute, for a man is never a really good
soldier until he can render a salute smartly.  Let the men break
ranks, Corporal, and have each man pass me in turn, saluting the
best he knows how."

As Captain Dick stood there, receiving and returning the salute
of each rookie as he passed, the young company commander noted
each man's performance with keen eyes.

"First rate for recruits, Corporal," Prescott said, as he turned
away.  "Give them daily drill at it, however."

Corporal Barrow gave his own most precise salute as he received
his captain's orders.  Then he called:

"In double rank, fall in!  Mark time, march!  Step more smartly,
Pelham.  Hip, hip, hip!  Squad halt!  One, two!"

From the corner of the building Dick had paused an instant to
glance back.  Then he went into the company office.

"I've just been watching Corporal Barrow and his new recruit squad,
Sergeant," Dick announced.  "The men are doing first-rate for
new men.  Corporal Barrow is a patient and competent drill-master."

"Yes, sir," Kelly replied, without trace of a smile.

"The patient instructor is the only one who can teach a recruit,
Sergeant.  If you ever see a non-com in this company losing his
temper set him straight at the first chance."

"Yes, sir."

"But don't make the correction in hearing of the squad unless the
case is a flagrant one."

"No, sir," Sergeant Kelly promised, his eyes smileless.

"How near is the company to full strength this morning?"

"Only twelve men short, sir.  A new draft, coining in on the 4.10
train this afternoon is expected to fill all companies to strength,
sir."

Dick Prescott felt a sudden thrill.  Filling up the companies
of the Ninety-ninth appeared to promise that the regiment would
soon be on its way overseas!

"If we get our full strength this afternoon, Sergeant, be sure
to have the clothing requisitions for them all in shape by this
evening.  Then we'll try to draw to-morrow morning."

"Yes, sir."

"And---sergeant!"

"Yes, sir."

"I'm mighty glad that you applied for transfer to this regiment
when I was ordered to it.  I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Thank you, sir!"

Kelly had sprung to his feet.  He now stood at salute as Prescott
left the office.

The train due at 4.10 arrived after 8.30 that evening.  Twelve
new men, assigned to A company, were marched to barracks after
ten.  No man in the detachment had eaten since early morning.  The
mess sergeant had coffee and sandwiches ready.

It was midnight when Kelly, with the aid of other non-coms, had
the measurements of the new men on paper and his clothing requisition
ready.  Dick Prescott was on hand to sign as company commander.

At six in the morning first call to reveille sounded from the bugles.

Like the other companies in the regiment A company tumbled out
of its cots.  Men dressed, seized soap, towels, brushes and combs,
and hurried to the wash-room at the rear of barracks.  Then back
again, the final touches being administered.  Outside a bugle
blew, calling the men to first formation.  Then mess-call caused
two hundred and fifty hungry soldiers to file into the mess-room,
kits in hand, and line up at the further end for food and hot drink.

At 7.46 Dick Prescott stepped briskly into the company office.

"Sergeant Kelly, have each man carry out his mattress to the incinerator
and empty out the straw.  Detail men to burn the straw.  Have
the cots piled at the end of each squad room.  At 8.25 turn the
company out with barracks bags and dismiss after the bags have
been placed.  At 8.40 turn out the company in full marching order,
with arms and pack, for inspection.  As soon as practicable thereafter
the men will be turned out again for issue of razors."

"Yes, sir," Kelly replied with a quiver.  "Of course you know what
it means, Sergeant?"

"The regiment is moving, sir."

"Moving by rail to the point of embarkation, Sergeant.  We're---at
last we're going over!"

There must have been an eavesdropper outside the office door,
for instantly, so it seemed, the news flashed through the building.

"Orders have come!"

"We're going over!"

"_Now_!"

"Stop that cheering, men!" boomed Dick Prescott's voice, as he
stepped into the corridor.  "This is Georgia, and you'll wake
all the sleeping babies in North Carolina."




CHAPTER X

ON BOARD THE TROOPSHIP


North to an embarkation camp, not to a pier.  There passed several
days of restlessness and unreality of life.

Final issues of all lacking equipment were made at last.  Then,
one evening, after dark, the Ninety-ninth once more fell in and
marched away, the bandsmen, carrying their silent instruments,
marching in headquarters company.

No send-off, no cheering, not even the playing of "The Girl I
Left Behind Me."

No relatives or friends to say good-bye!  Nothing but secrecy,
expectancy, an indescribable eagerness clothed in stealth.

"How do you feel, Sergeant?" Captain Prescott asked, as he and
his top stood at the head of A company awaiting the final order
that was to set the nearly four thousand officers and men of the
Ninety-ninth in motion on the road.

"Like a burglar, sneaking out of a house he didn't realize he
was in, sir," Kelly answered.

First Lieutenant Noll Terry shivered; it was impatient
uncertainty---nothing else.

Then the order came.  The dense column reached the railway, where
the sections of the troop train waited. By platoons the men marched
into dimly lighted cars.  When all were aboard the lights were
turned off, leaving Uncle Sam's men in complete darkness, save
where a pipe or cigarette glowed.

Despite the eagerness the newness and uncertainty of it all, many
of the soldiers dozed unconscious of the talk and laughter of others.
Singing was forbidden and non-coms had orders to be alert to stop
any unnecessarily loud noises.

Forth into the night fared the sections of the train.  How long
it was on the rail none of the men had any clear idea.  It was
still dark, however, when a stop was made and the order ran
monotonously along:

"All out!"

Again dim lights were turned on, that men might find all their
belongings.  Adjusting their packs the platoons of the Ninety-ninth
found their way to the ground below.

For once there was no attempt at good military formation.  At
route step and in irregular columns, the regiment moved forward
by platoons.  Unknown officers stood along the way to direct,
for the regiment's platoon leaders had no knowledge of the way.

Thus a mile or more was covered by a regiment that looked disorganized
and spectral in the darkness.  Then the aspect changed somewhat.
Whiffs of salt air prepared the soldiers.  Army trucks were moving
on parallel roads or trails.  Ahead of them appeared high fences
of barbed wire.  It looked as though the travelers had come upon
a huge bull-pen.  There were gates, guarded by military sentries
not of the Ninety-ninth.

Through these gates and past the barbed wire filed the marching men.

Further ahead loomed the sheds of a great pier.

With the help of officers who knew the ground the Ninety-ninth found
room to fall in for roll call.

"All present or accounted for!"

Then battalion by battalion, a company at a time, the regiment
passed on through the dimly lighted pier sheds.  On the further
side towered the bulwarks of a great ship, with gangways reaching
down to the pier.

In some mysterious way order reigned and speed was observed.
Line after line of uniformed men passed up the gangways and vanished.
Lights were on the ship, yet dim enough to be in keeping with the
night's mystery.

Last of all the almost muffled noises of gangways being drawn
down on to the piers.  Hawsers were cast off.  Stealthy tugs hauled
the ocean monster out into the stream.

"Off at last!" was felt more than spoken.  Then the tugs let go
and the ship, outwardly darkened save for the few necessary running
lights, moved slowly down stream.

Some venturesome soldiers found their way up on deck.

Above them, on a still higher deck, the shadowy forms of officers
were discernible.

The strangeness of the dark sea lay over all.  It seemed uncanny,
this dark departure from one's native land---the land for which
these men were going to fight, to bleed and die!

Yet there was no sense of fear.  It was the strangeness that gripped
all minds.

Up forward on the spar deck a few enlisted men opened their mouths
to sing.  The chorus grew in volume and the words rolled up:

_"And I don't know where I'm going, but I'm on my way!"_

_"For I belong to the Regulars.  I'm proud to say."_

_"And I'll do my dooty-ooty, Night or day."_

_"I don't know where I'm going, But I'm on my way!"_  Breaking
through the words the ship's deep-throated whistle boomed its
own notes.




CHAPTER XI

IN THE WATERS OF THE SEA WOLVES


Some days later the same ship steamed steadily through the waters
on the further side of the Atlantic.

Nor was the Ninety-ninth alone.  Seven other transports were keeping
her company, together with a busy, bustling escort of British and
American destroyers.

For these American adventurers of to-day were nearing the coast
of Ireland.

Whether these transports were to unload their cargoes of human
beings and munitions at any port in Great Britain or Ireland few
on the transports knew, nor did those few tell others.

Ever since the first morning out there had been daily drills,
on every transport, in abandoning ship.  A few night drills, too,
had been held.  Not an officer or man was there but knew his station
and his lifeboat in case of disastrous meeting with a submarine.

These had not been the only drills, however.  From morning to
night platoons had been drawn up on the decks and military drills
had been all but incessant while daylight lasted.  Especially
had the newest recruits been drilled.  By this time the latest
of them to join the regiment had gained considerable of the appearance
of the soldier.

Dick and Greg, sharing the same cabin, had been much together,
for on shipboard they had found much leisure.  It had been the
lieutenants who had drilled the platoons.  Captains were but little
occupied on shipboard.

On the morning that it became known that the fleet had entered
the Danger Zone, Dick and Greg stood on deck to the port of the
pilot house.  Leaning over the rail they idly scanned the surface
of the sea to northward.

"Almost in France, my boy!" Prescott cried eagerly.  "Or England!"

"Near enough, yet we may never see either country," returned Captain
Holmes, suppressing a yawn, for the sea air, even after a night's
rest, made him drowsy.

"Croaker!" laughed Dick.

"I'm not," Greg denied, "and I don't want to croak, either, but
who can tell?  We are now in the waters where the sea wolves have
been busy enough in finding prey."

"So far they haven't proved that they could do much to troopships,"
Dick declared warmly.

"There always has to be a first time," Holmes retorted.

"All right, then," smiled Prescott.  "We're going to be torpedoed.
Now, I hope that satisfies you."

"You know it doesn't," Holmes rejoined.  "This sea air makes me
so sleepy, all the time, that I don't feel as though I could stand
any real excitement."

"Being torpedoed would be something to look back upon in later
years," Dick observed thoughtfully.

"Yes, if we had any later years on earth in which to look back,"
Captain Holmes responded.

"Who's this strange-looking creature coming?" Dick suddenly demanded,
as he stared aft.

"Captain Craig, the adjutant, of course," Greg answered.  "He has
his life belt on, and he's stopping to talk to others."

"After he speaks they hurry away," Dick went on.  "I understand.
All hands are ordered to put on life belts."

And that, indeed, proved to be the message that Captain Craig
brought forward with him.  Dick and Greg did not have far to go
to reach their cabin.  In five minutes they reappeared on deck
in the bulky contrivances intended to buoy them up in the water
should they have the bad fortune to find themselves tossing on
the waves.

"This makes the danger seem real," Prescott observed.

"Too blamed real!" grumbled Greg.  "We're ordered not to take
these belts off, either, until the order is passed, and are told
that the order won't be passed to-day, either.  Imagine our trying
to get close to the dining table to eat in comfort!"

"It may be in the plans that we're not to eat to-day," Captain
Dick laughed.

Ahead, on either flank and at the rear, the torpedo-boat destroyers
were scouting vigilantly, with gunners standing by ready to fire
promptly at any periscope or conning tower of an enemy craft that
might be sighted.

"I don't suppose there'll be any band concert this afternoon,"
said Greg Holmes suddenly and ruefully.  "And we have a mighty
good band, too.  And probably no band concert to-morrow forenoon,
either."

"We may not be at sea to-morrow forenoon," Dick suggested.

"Have you been able to figure out at all where we are?" Captain
Holmes asked.

"I haven't.  I don't know either our course or the speed at which
we are traveling.  All I am sure of is that we are still out of
sight of land.  I was told that we are nearing the coast of Ireland,
but Ireland is a town of some size, so the information isn't very
explicit."

"Say," ejaculated Greg, suddenly looking over at the water, "we
have begun to hit up a faster speed.  So have the other transports.
And look at the destroyers off yonder.  They are moving faster,
too.  I wonder if any submarine signs have been seen."

There could be no doubt that the fleet was moving faster.

"I take it," Prescott guessed, "that we've reached the part of
the ocean, where greater speed is considered much more healthful."

"The leading transport is signaling, and so are the destroyers
in the lead," Greg announced, peering ahead.

In their path, and coming nearer four columns of dense smoke could
be observed ascending as though coming up out of the water.

"More destroyers, or some cruisers, coming out to meet us," Dick
conjectured.