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CHAPTER XI
THE RESULT OF STAYING AWAKE

“So long, Iggy, old top. We’ll be back by midnight,” called out Jimmy Blazes from the front seat of the automobile which was to take Roger, Bob and himself into Tremont for their Wednesday outing.

“You’ll never know when midnight comes, Iggy.” Bob leaned out of the tonneau of the machine, his black eyes twinkling. “Better watch yourself to-night, or you’ll be dropping off at eight o’clock, sitting up straight, and morning’ll find you flopped over still in your uniform. You won’t have any nice kind brothers around this evening to shake you awake before Taps.” Bob teasingly referred to Ignace’s tendency to doze off early in the evening while sitting on his cot. “Why not be a hero and stay awake for once just to see that your little Buddies get back O. K.?”

“So will I,” assured Ignace with deep decision. “Goo’-bye.” The automobile now starting, he nodded solemnly and raised his hand in a familiar gesture of farewell which Bob always called “Iggy’s benediction style.”

“I believe he will, at that,” remarked Roger, as the car rolled down the company street. “You shouldn’t have told him to do it, Bob.”

“Oh, he understood this time that I was only kidding him,” was the light rejoinder. “Look who’s here!” he exclaimed, as the car stopped at a hail from a waiting group of six soldiers.

Crowded into the tonneau with strangers, neither Bob nor Roger saw fit to continue the subject of Ignace. Both were soon exchanging good-humored commonplaces with their soldier companions of the ride.

Once fairly outside camp limits, the load of rollicking soldier boys were soon raising their voices in a lusty rendering of “Where Do We Go From Here?” With the prospect of an afternoon and evening of freedom before them, they were all in high spirits. Traveling a somewhat rough road, the frequent jolting they met with whenever the car went over a bump merely added to their hilarity. An unoffending motorist ahead of them, driving along in a somewhat rickety runabout, presently became an object of marked concern. A running fire of military commands gleefully shouted out at the swaying machine as it lurched along soon caused its luckless driver to speed up and scuttle out of sound of the derisive calls which greeted him from the rear. Uncle Sam’s boys were out for fun and intended to have it.

An hour’s ride brought the revelers into Tremont. Arrived in the heart of the city, which boasted a population of about one hundred thousand, Jimmy, Bob and Roger took friendly leave of their noisy fellow travelers.

“Now where do we go from here?” asked Roger, as the trio halted together on a corner of Center Street, Tremont’s main thoroughfare, and looked eagerly about them.

“To a restaurant for grub,” was Bob’s fervent response. “I know a place where the eats are O. K. I told you fellows that the first newspaper job I ever tackled was on a morning paper in this town. I lived here about three months. Just long enough to make good on the paper. Then I beat it back to the big town and landed with the Chronicle. I know every historic cobblestone in this lovely burg.”

As none of the three had stopped for the noon meal at Camp Sterling, they lost no time in patronizing the restaurant of Bob’s choice.

After weeks of uncomplainingly accepting in their mess kits the wholesome though monotonous rations of the Army, a real bill of fare to choose from was a rare treat. In consequence they lingered long at table and, according to Jimmy, “filled up for a week,” before starting out to “see the sights.” This last consisted of a stroll through the principal streets, with stops along the way at various shops, there to purchase a few trifles, such as had caught their fancy while pausing to stare into attractive show windows. Then followed a visit to a motion-picture theater, where a feature photoplay was going on. From there they drifted into another “movie palace,” and so amused themselves until supper time. The evening was devoted to witnessing a “real show” at Tremont’s largest theater. It was a lively farce comedy and the boys enjoyed it.

Meanwhile, Ignace So Pulinski was putting in a most lonely afternoon and evening at Camp Sterling. Temporarily deprived of the lively society of his Brothers, he was at a loss to know what to do with himself. Part of the afternoon he spent in wandering gloomily about camp, frequently consulting the dollar watch he carried, in a wistful marking of the slow passing of the time. Aside from his bunkies, few of the men in his barrack had ever taken the trouble to cultivate his acquaintance. During his first days in camp they had regarded him as “a joke,” privately wondering what three live fellows like Jimmy, Bob and Roger could see in “that slow-poke” to make a fuss over. After his wrathful descent upon bullying Bixton, he had undoubtedly risen in estimation. He had signally proved his ability to take care of himself. No longer classed as “a joke” he achieved the title of “that wild Poley” and was accorded a certain amount of grudging respect that made for civil treatment but little friendliness.

By the time the supper call sounded that evening Ignace had reached a stage of loneliness that caused him to sigh gustily as he stood in line at the counter with his mess kit to receive his portion of food.

His china-blue eyes roving mournfully over the long room in search of companionship while eating, they came to rest on the man Schnitzel. The latter looked equally lonely, as he arranged his meal at an unoccupied table at the far end of the room. Owing to the fact that it was a half-holiday, the mess hall was minus at least a fourth of its usual throng. Obeying a sudden impulse Ignace made his way to where Schnitzel sat, and asked half-hesitatingly, “You care I sit here by you?”

“Help yourself,” was the laconic response. Nevertheless the German-American’s eyes showed a trace of inquiring surprise at this sudden invasion.

“Thank.” Ignace carefully set his meat can and cup on the table, and solemnly seated himself beside the other.

“Too much quiet, so is because the many get the pass,” ventured the Pole. “I no like ver’ well.”

“It’s all the same to me.” There was a note of bitterness in the replying voice. “I haven’t any kick coming. I suppose you miss your bunkies,” he added, making an indifferent effort at civility. “They’re a lively bunch of Sammies.”

Ignace stopped eating and stared fixedly at his companion. The latter’s dark, rugged features wore an expression of melancholy that woke in him a peculiar feeling of friendliness. “Y-e-a,” he nodded. “I miss. Them ver’ good my frens, all. I call my Brothar. You speak the American good. You have go by American school?”

Having never before exchanged a word with Schnitzel, Ignace had fully expected to hear the man use broken English.

Schnitzel’s fork left his hand and clattered angrily on the bare table. “Why shouldn’t I speak English well?” he burst forth, scowling savagely. “I was born in this country. My parents came from Germany, but my father’s an American citizen. He hates the Kaiser like poison. I’m an American, not a Fritzie, as a lot of fellows here seem to think. If I wasn’t I wouldn’t be in this camp training to go over. I enlisted because I wanted to fight for my country. Some people act as if they didn’t believe it, though. There’s been a lot of lies started about me right in our barrack. I know who to thank for it, too. I’ve stood it without saying a word. But if it goes on – ” He stopped, one strong brown hand clenching. “I was glad you jumped that hound the other day,” he continued fiercely. “Wish you’d hammered him good!”

“So-o!” Ignace was not too slow of comprehension to put two and two together. Here it seemed was a man with whom he had something in common. “You see me do him?” he asked.

“Yes. I was there that day and saw the whole thing! I didn’t blame you. I hate the sight of him. He bunks next to me, you know. I wish he didn’t. But then, what do I care? I can take care of myself. Don’t let’s talk about him. It makes me sore just to think of him. Those three fellows you run with are good chaps. You were lucky to get in with them. They all treat me fine, though I hardly know them.”

Praise of his Brothers caused Ignace to launch forth into the story of his first meeting with them, and of all they had done for him. Schnitzel listened without comment, merely repeating, “You were lucky,” when Ignace had finished. With that he relapsed into taciturn silence, hurriedly finished his meal, and with a brief “So long” rose and left Ignace to himself.

The latter, however, was not concerned by his table-mate’s sudden relapse into uncommunicativeness. He watched Schnitzel walk away, a gleam of interest in his round, childlike eyes. He would have something pleasant to tell his Brothers on their return. They would be surprised to learn that the “so quiet fellow who never talk” had said so much to him.

His letter to his mother still unwritten, Ignace decided to begin it directly he had cleansed and put away his mess kit. Seven o’clock saw him established at a desk in the Y. M. C. A., laboriously wielding a stubby pencil. This time he wrote in Polish and at some length. It was almost nine o’clock when he finished amid frequent yawns. Realizing that he was getting very sleepy, he took a brisk walk up and down the company street on which his barrack was situated. He was determined to fight off sleep, so as to stay awake until his bunkies’ return.

He lingered outside in the crisp night air until call to quarters drove him reluctantly indoors. After Taps, however, his struggle began in earnest.

From the sounds of deep breathing about him he guessed that he alone was still awake. By the time that eleven o’clock had actually arrived he was sure that it was past twelve, and that his bunkies had overstayed their leave of absence. The setting in of this dire conjecture roused him in earnest. He had now no further need to fight off sleep.

His face turned anxiously in the direction of the stairway; he was not aware that across the squad room a man had noiselessly left his cot and was slipping along cat-footed toward one of the three vacant bunks just beyond Ignace’s own. Though he heard no sound, that inexplicable sense that warns of stealthy approach wrenched the Pole’s straying gaze from the direction of the stairway.

A sudden echoing yell of mingled surprise and anger was followed by the smack of a bare fist against flesh. Came a scuffle of feet and a resounding thump as two bodies hit the floor. The racket aroused the peacefully dreaming occupants of the squad room to startled awakening. As the thumping continued, mingled with hoarse exclamations, enraged sputterings, and the thudding impact of blows, a babble of voices rose on all sides. With it came lights and an exasperated top sergeant bearing down upon the combatants with fire in his eye.

He might have been a thousand miles away so far as the fighters were concerned. They had now gained their feet, and were engaged in battle royal.

“Stop it!” bellowed the sergeant. “Break away! Get back to your bunks, both of you.”

Despite his stentorian commands, the fight went on. Clad only in his undergarments, his long fair hair wildly tousled, eyes two blue flames, blood trickling from his nose, Ignace was a sight to be remembered, as he launched a powerful blow at Bixton, his hated antagonist. Bixton looked even worse. The coat of his pajamas hung on him in shreds. His left eye was closed, and his nose was bleeding also. His face was a livid, infuriate mask against which the freckles stood out darkly.

The sergeant now took a hand in the fight. Leaping behind Ignace he wrapped both arms about the Pole’s body, and, exerting all his strength, jerked the belligerent violently backward. Beginning dimly to realize what was happening to him, Ignace retained just enough common sense not to resist, but allowed himself to be flung unceremoniously down on his cot.

“This is a nice state of affairs,” lashed out the sergeant, glaring down at Ignace, who had now raised himself to a sitting posture. “Now you stay where you’re put. Don’t you dare move an inch off that cot.” With this he whirled and bore down upon Bixton, who had been dragged to his own cot by another non-com.

“You’re a nice-looking specimen,” he blared forth at Bixton. “Get those rags off you quick, and go and wash your face. Move lively. Go with him, Quinn,” he directed, turning to the corporal, who stood at his elbow. “He’s not to be trusted. Get him back here on the jump, and don’t let him open his head. The nerve of two rowdies like that setting the squad room in an uproar at this time of night! Not another sound from you, you ruffian,” he warned Bixton. “You’ll get yours to-morrow.”

“It wasn’t my fault,” began Bixton hotly. “I started to get a drink of water and – ”

“Hold your tongue!” roared the sergeant. “See to him, Quinn.” Turning on his heel the sergeant took the center of the floor, and issued a succession of sharp commands that sent the men to their bunks, and brought order and quiet out of the humming confusion. Finally satisfied with the result, he next took Ignace in tow and marched him off for repairs, sternly refusing to allow him to offer a word of explanation. “You can say what you’ve got to say at headquarters to-morrow,” was his grim ultimatum.

When at five minutes to twelve Roger, Jimmy and Bob stole quietly into the squad room, it was apparently wrapped in its usual midnight silence. Nor were any of the three aware of the many pairs of bright eyes that marked their entrance and followed them to their cots.

“Are you asleep, Iggy?” whispered Jimmy softly, as, smiling to himself, he bent over the Pole’s cot. He was wondering if Ignace had really taken Bob seriously.

In the darkness an arm reached out and drew his head down to a level with the Pole’s own. Into his ear was breathed the amazing words: “I have give Bixton the strong poonch. To-morrow mebbe no more solder. You no speak me more now. Morning I tell you.” The voice ceased and the grip suddenly relaxed, as Ignace flopped over on his side with a faint sigh.

Jimmy repressed the amazed ejaculation that sprang to his lips as he straightened up. Before sitting down on his own cot, he slid quietly over to Roger, who was engaged in removing his shoes. “Listen. Iggy’s done it,” he whispered. “Given Bixton a trimming. He doesn’t dare open his head. He’s in bad. Pass it on to Bob. I don’t know what started it, but, oh, Glory, I wish I’d been here!”

CHAPTER XII
AN UNEXPECTED FRIEND AT COURT

During the remainder of the night none of the four Khaki Boys slept much. The very nature of Ignace’s fragmentary information was calculated to keep his bunkies awake for a while. Ignace himself tossed restlessly about on his cot. Though his conscience did not trouble him, his nose pained him.

Dropping into fitful slumber just as dawn was graying in the east, he was cautiously awakened a little before first call by Roger, who was always first of the four to open his eyes in the morning.

“Sorry to do it, old man,” apologized Roger in a whisper, “but we mayn’t have another chance to talk. Get dressed as quietly as you can. I’m going to wake up Jimmy and Bob.”

Bob and Jimmy next interviewed, the quartette dressed with noiseless speed. Directly after first call they gathered about Ignace, who in an undertone regaled them with an account of the fight.

“Now listen to me, Iggy,” counseled Bob in low, guarded tones. “When you get on the carpet before the K. O. you tell him just what you told us and stick to it. Don’t you let Bixton put it over you. Naturally he’ll try it. It’ll be your word against his.”

“Too bad somebody else didn’t see him at his dirty work,” muttered Jimmy. “Wish we hadn’t gone off to Tremont. Then this wouldn’t have happened.”

“What you should have done, Ignace, was just to hold onto him and raise an alarm.” Roger’s face indicated troubled sympathy.

“So think I,” protested Ignace. “Get up quick an’ try. Him no think I am the wake. Jus’ I catch, him yell; hit me the nose. Then am I the mad. Hit too; ver’ strong poonch. So is it the fight.”

“So is it,” commented Bob grimly. “You’re in for it, Iggy. All you can do is to speak your little piece, and take your medicine like a lamb. You’re in the Army now. Oh, boy!” The rueful intonation of this last brought the flicker of a smile to three very gloomy faces.

“Break away!” warned Jimmy sotto-voce, as he sighted Sergeant Dexter bearing down upon them.

As Roger had feared, the sergeant was on the trail of the belligerents, neither of whom were to be allowed to mingle with their comrades, pending the action of the commanding officer, to whom he had already sent a written report of the disturbance.

Following one o’clock Assembly that day, came the dread summons that saw both Ignace and Bixton dropped out of ranks and marched off to headquarters under guard, there to give an account of themselves to that awe-inspiring person, the K. O., which is Army vernacular for the commanding officer. It was a highly uncomfortable moment for both when they were brought into the presence of a most austere-faced commandant, whose penetrating blue eyes pierced them through and through, as they came to attention before his desk.

With him was Sergeant Dexter, who eyed the two with an expression of profound disgust. The sergeant was feeling decidedly sore over the whole affair. It put him in an unpleasant light. Having stared the culprits fairly out of countenance, Major Stearns proceeded, with due deliberation, to pick up the report from his desk, reading it aloud in a dry, hard tone that fully indicated his great displeasure.

“This is a full report of what occurred last night?” he asked, turning to Sergeant Dexter.

“It is, sir,” replied the sergeant, saluting.

“What’s your name? What have you to say for yourself?” he next rapped out severely, addressing Bixton. The man’s left eye showed all too plainly the result of that scrimmage in the dark.

“Bixton, sir. What happened last night was not my fault, sir,” returned Bixton, almost defiantly. “A little after eleven o’clock I woke up and found I was thirsty. I left my cot to get a drink of water. I crossed the room as quiet as I could, and started down the squad room. I stumbled a little in the dark and stopped for a minute. Next thing I knew a man had jumped on me and was trying to hit me. It surprised me so I yelled right out. He kept on hitting me, so I had to defend myself and – ”

“That is no the trut’,” came the angry contradiction. Ignace glared righteous indignation at his traducer. “Never I – ”

“Silence!” thundered the K. O. “Don’t you dare speak until you’re told to talk!”

“’Scuse,” muttered Ignace, too utterly abashed by the rebuke to be soldier-like.

“You state,” the Major resumed his inquiry, “that this man here attacked you last night in the dark without cause?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Humph! Have you ever before had any trouble with him?”

“Once before, sir.” A baleful gleam of triumph shot into the man’s pale eyes.

“When and where? Tell me about it.”

“One day quite a while ago he was talking loud in barracks when I was trying to rest. I asked him to stop it, and he wouldn’t pay any attention. Then I asked him again to stop making so much noise, and he jumped on me just the same as he did last night. He got me down and would have half-killed me if one of the fellows he runs with hadn’t come in and pulled him off. As soon as I knew last night who was fighting me I wasn’t surprised any more. I knew he’d been laying for me and so – ”

“That will do.” The major cut him off sharply.

Fixing a severe glance on Sergeant Dexter he asked, “Why didn’t you make a report of this first fight between these two men?”

“I knew nothing about it,” was the chagrined answer. “I was certainly not in the barrack when it occurred.”

“Humph!” came the dry repetition. “You seem to be hunting for trouble, my man,” was the commanding officer’s grim opinion, as he looked poor Ignace sternly over. “If you’ve anything to say, I’ll hear it.” The tone indicated that more than enough had already been said. “What’s your name? Speak up.”

Ignace drew a deep, sighing breath. Raising his head with a proud little air, which he had unconsciously borrowed from Jimmy, he said, with slow dignity: “I am one a Pole, Ignace Pulinski, sir. I am no the liar, sir. Now say I the trut’ all. You no believe, I can no help.” Quite unemotionally, and with frequent groping for a word that eluded him, Ignace proceeded in his broken speech to give a detailed account of Bixton’s repeated churlish conduct toward himself since he had first encountered him in Company E’s barrack. Neither did the K. O. interrupt him, but allowed him to go on talking, his keen eyes never leaving the Polish boy’s stolid face.

“Yeserday my three Brothar get the pass,” pursued Ignace doggedly. “Then I all ’lone. Bob say, ‘you stay wake we come back.’ I say, ‘So will I.’ Taps him come, I ver’ sleepy, but no go sleep. So wait I an’ watch. After while think now is mid the night. My Brothar no yet come. I look to the stair, then, know I no why, look round. I see this man – so.” Ignace leaned forward to illustrate. “He have the hand reach out the rack Jimmy, my ver’ bes’ Brothar. I think he go steal something. Once we write the lettar. Leave on the shelf Jimmy. In morning no lettar. So las’ night think him mebbe t’ief. I think catch, keep till sergeant come. Then him yell an’ hit me the nose. So am I the mad. Hit, too; ver’ strong poonch. So is it the fight,” ended Ignace placidly, using the precise words in which he had recounted the fray to his bunkies.

“That’s a big lie from beginning to end! He’s trying to save his own face.” This time it was Bixton who forgot himself. His face aflame, he turned menacingly upon his accuser. “You dirty, foreign trash – ”

“Hold your tongue! Such language is unbecoming enough in itself, let alone in the presence of your commanding officer.” The probing eyes of the commandant grew steely, his jaws came together with a snap on the last word. “The stories of you two men don’t agree in the least, except on one point,” he continued harshly. “You are both guilty of brawling and thus disgracing the Service. Sergeant – ” Still standing at rigid attention, the non-com. tried to look even more attentive. “Bring the man you say knows something of this affair from the other room.”

Smartly saluting, the sergeant wheeled and stepped to the door of an inner room. Flinging it open he disappeared, to return almost instantly with a soldier, whose dark, rugged face was set in purposeful lines.

“This is the man, sir,” reported the sergeant.

Momentary consternation showed itself in Bixton’s face as he viewed the unexpected witness; then a sneer played about his lips. Ignace, however, stared at the newcomer in blank, absolute wonder. The sergeant’s report, read out by the K. O., had contained nothing about this third party, who, nevertheless, it seemed, had something to say about last night’s disturbance. Now the Pole listened with strained attention as Private Schnitzel, the man whose acquaintance he had made only yesterday, made prompt replies to the major’s preliminary questions.

“Tell me what you saw last night,” commanded the K. O.

“I was awake and saw Bixton leave his cot last night, sir. He crossed the room and stopped, as well as I could see in the dim light, in front of the vacant cots that belong to the men that were away. I saw him reach out his hand. Then I heard him yell and knew someone had caught hold of him. I knew it must be Pulinski who had grabbed him, because he must have thought just as I did that Bixton was up to something crooked.”

“Never mind what you thought,” frowned the major. “Is that all you saw? You are holding nothing back?”

“That is all I saw, sir. I have told you everything I knew about last night, sir, except that I saw the fight and all that happened afterward when the sergeant came.”

“What do you know concerning the trouble between these two men previous to this disgraceful affair?” The K. O. had caught the slight stress laid on Schnitzel’s words, “last night.” “Were you in the squad room when the first brawl between them took place?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Give me an impartial account of it.”

Schnitzel complied with a terse recital of the occurrence, which in every detail corroborated the statements which Ignace had made.

“Are you ready to take solemn oath, if necessary, that what you have just stated is absolutely true in every respect?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very good. That will be all for the present. You may go.”

Saluting, Schnitzel wheeled and walked briskly from the room.

An oppressive silence fell as the sound of his retreating footfalls died out, during which the K. O. coldly scrutinized the pair before him. When at last he spoke, he addressed himself to Bixton.

“According to the testimony of two men, you were behaving in a suspicious manner when Pulinski attacked you. If you were on your way to get a drink of water, why did you stop to prowl about another man’s cot?”

“I didn’t stop on purpose, sir,” denied Bixton. “I stumbled and nearly fell. In the dark it might have looked different to those two men, though.”

“I’d advise you to carry yourself so straight hereafter that what you do won’t ‘look different’ to any man in your barrack,” was the sarcastic retort. “Mind your own business, and keep to your own side of the squad room.

“As for you,” he stared hard at Ignace, “keep your too-ready fists to yourself. A rowdy who can’t control himself isn’t fit to be a soldier. Loss of self-control in war time has put more than one man against a blank wall, facing a firing squad. If you see a man acting in what you think is a suspicious manner, report him to your sergeant. Don’t fly at him like a savage and start to pummel him. Leave discipline to your officers. That’s what they’re here for.

“You two men are both guilty of disgraceful and disorderly conduct. If you’re ever brought on the carpet again for fighting or misbehavior in barracks it will go hard with you. You will be confined to your company street for thirty days, without privileges and with extra fatigue. If that doesn’t teach you soldierly behavior, we have stronger methods of dealing with such ruffians as you.”

Having delivered himself of a few further biting remarks relative to his highly uncomplimentary opinion of both men, the K. O. ordered them back to barracks, instructing the sergeant to keep a close watch on them, and see that his orders regarding them went into instant effect.

To Ignace it seemed unbelievable that he should be returning to barracks. He had fully expected to land in the guard-house for at least twenty days. He was divided between humiliation at the rebuke he had just received, and dazed happiness at the thought of again being with his Brothers. He was also deeply grateful to Schnitzel, whom he fully realized had tried to befriend him.

Though the commanding officer had reprimanded both himself and Bixton with impartial severity, Ignace could not know that of the two he had made a far better impression on the “ver’ cross major.” Behind Major Stearns’ impassive features had lurked a certain sympathy for the man who had been too hasty with his fists in the protection of his friend’s property. The K. O. was of the private opinion that whereas Ignace had told the truth, Bixton had lied. A keen student of human nature, he had arrived at a fairly correct estimate of the latter. The testimony against him had been too vague, however, on which to hold him for any charge other than that of disorderly conduct. He had, accordingly, been obliged to consider the two combatants as equally guilty. He was strongly of the belief, however, that Bixton would bear watching, and made mental note that he would instruct Sergeant Dexter to keep a special lookout in that direction.

Bixton’s face was not good to see as he returned to barracks. He was consumed with a black and unreasoning rage against the world in general. Most of all he hated Schnitzel. Schnitzel had tried to “queer” him. Well, he had failed. Now he, Bixton, would never rest until he “got even” with the “nosey tattle-tale.” He would “queer” Schnitzel no matter how long it took him. When he was through, Schnitzel would find himself in for something worse than a “bawling-out” from the K. O., extra fatigue and thirty days’ loss of liberty and privileges.