Part 4 (1/2)

And the spectators; they went wild.

For ten minutes steadily the fighters milled and I never saw a better slugging match. The Sergeant had had more experience in boxing, that was certain, but what Red lacked in skill he made up for in hitting power.

Every time his glove met the Sergeant's face it smacked as loud as a hand clap.

[Ill.u.s.tration: They didn't stop for rounds, or time out, or anything.]

Then just when it seemed as if they must be tired out, there was a sudden clash and a whirl of fists and Redney ducked away and started one from the floor. It was an uppercut and it found a clean hole between the Sergeant's two arms, and met him flush on the point of the jaw. He staggered, tried to fall into a clinch, missed the elusive Redney and went down with a thump.

”1-2-3-4-5-6-” counted the referee.

The Sergeant rolled over and tried to get up. ”Don't hold me down; lemme at him,” he said huskily. But no one was holding him down. It was his refractory nerves. They wouldn't obey his will power.

”7-8-9-10,” tolled off the fateful numbers. Then what a yell went up for Redney, and Red, almost all in, himself, evidently had satisfied his grudge, for he went over and helped stand the groggy Sergeant on his feet.

And all agreed it was some battle.

But the Y.M. shacks aren't dedicated to prize fights and swearing and concerts entirely. They are the nearest approach to home or club life that most of us come in contact with for weeks at a stretch. The big, open hearths with their crackling logs are mighty fine places to spend a pleasant hour or two. Then there are the writing tables, and the reading rooms with their books and magazines, and the phonographs.

The other night I saw a great big fellow, with burly fists and a stubbly beard on his chin (it must have been the night before his bi-weekly shave, which is as often as most of us can find time-or the inclination to use a razor) snuggled up close to the phonograph and listening attentively to the ”Swanee River,” which he was playing as softly as the instrument would permit, and now and then he would blow his nose in a big handkerchief and wipe suspicious signs of moisture from the corners of his eyes. He was having a regular sad drunk and enjoying every moment of it. I'll bet he thought he was the most homesick mortal in camp.

Then there are the telephone booths. Every night there is a line of at least fifty men waiting patiently for a chance in the booth. At a dollar a call they ring up the folks in the city and have five minutes' chat with them, just by way of warding off an attack of homesickness. I've used the booth five dollars' worth to date.

These army breeches I'm wearing, I noticed to-night, are very comfortable. I like the deep, straight pockets in them. I think I'll have my civilian suit made with those kind of pockets hereafter. But I haven't gotten over the habit of pulling them up each time I sit down so that they won't get baggy at the knees.

Wednesday:

Found my dog!

I was over in another section of the cantonment this morning, for a few moments between drill and mess call, and there was ”Local Board No. 163”

as big as life, trotting along beside a chap I knew. It was Billy Allen.

The dog recognized me and so did Billy and we stopped a while and compared notes.

Billy had the worst hard luck story in respect to the Draft of any man I know. He's an old National Guardsman, having enlisted soon after we left school together. Spent eight years in the infantry, and went to the Border. He left the service after he got back and a little later when a call came for men for the Officers' Reserve Corps he applied and was accepted, for the second camp. Meanwhile he had registered as a man of draft age. Then came his call for Officers' Training Camp, where he was making out famously; so well in fact that he was recommended for the aero-plane service.

But the recommendation was as far as he got. The drawing had meanwhile been made in Was.h.i.+ngton, he was well up in the list and one fine day he received a notice to appear for examination. Of course he pa.s.sed and was accepted. That yanked him out of the Officers' Reserve and now he's down here, a private in the ”Suicide Club,” with Buck Winters, an old cla.s.smate of both of us, his commanding officer.

I told him about ”Local Board No. 163” whom he had dubbed ”Mut” because he looked it. First we were going to match for the dog, but we decided, after a moment's reflection, to let him choose his master. Billy said good-bye and walked one way and I walked the other and the dog, after a moment's hesitation, went with Billy. And so I lost my dog a second time. I guess he didn't like my cold water treatment for fleas.

An interesting thing happened here to-day that just shows how vast this huge cantonment is. The cot next to Fat and two below me has been vacant ever since we have been here. To-night a chap came in from the barracks next door, bag and baggage, and took possession of it. Fat made his acquaintance right off, and the newcomer told him that he had been transferred to this company about the time we were-a week or so ago-and since no one told him where to go or where to bunk he went to the barracks next door and took a cot.

But he really belonged in here and was a member of our squad, which for some mysterious reason had always remained a seven-man squad, with the eighth man a.s.signed to it but never heard from. Every roll call he had been marked absent, and he had been put down as a deserter and an alarm sent out for him through the country. At the present moment the New York police are searching diligently for him.

[Ill.u.s.tration: I guess he didn't like my cold water treatment for fleas]