Adventure Magazine Cover, November 10, 1924 — page 6: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

4 Adventure lieutenant, always behind, like a dog’s tail, and not half so useful. When the company had passed the man on the bench, who had risen to salute the officers, sat down again. “Have I got to join a madhouse like that?” he asked himself. He consulted a paper that he held in his hand, and then, resting his chin on his clenched fist, he proceeded to meditate. This man was faultlessly attired in a uni- form that fitted him like his skin. It had just the proper flare of skirt, and height of collar and snugness of waistline. His campaign hat was clearly a product of the hand of Stetson and the red cord upon it was of silk. ‘There were three stripes upon the man’s arm. A sergeant of artillery by the uniform and a regular by the cut thereof.. He looked sadly down a vista of unpainted barracks, where men ran about from one building to the other, waving mess-kits. ‘“‘Well,” said the man on the bench, ‘“‘if I’m going to do something, I’d better do it quick, or I won’t get any dinner.” Still he remained on the bench. The sun was hot and the late spring air drowsy, but it was none too warm for the man on the bench. He liked to feel the sun baking him in front and the heat rising from the wall of the building against his back. Bugles began to trill and whistles to blow. There was a clattering of feet in all the barracks and lines began toform. A column of negro labor troops tramped by, pick and shovel on shoulder. Two dungaree clad prisoners passed, pushing a little cart and gathering cigaret butts and bits of paper. A sentry followed them, a shotgun in the crook of his arm. The man on the bench watched this group with interest. The two prisoners dragged one foot after the other, slowly, making every movement consume as much time as possible, taking thirty seconds to spear a piece of paper and unspear it into the little cart. The sentry looked about him with a bored air. The man on the bench stood up. ‘“Let’s go,” he said to himself. ‘This place is in the next block. T’ll have a look at it anyway.” He waited until a company going to drill had passed and then went down the street. Opposite another one of those unpainted box-like buildings he stopped again. Before this building were a number of trunk lockers standing on end with their lids open. Some bedding rolls were hung over trestles. There were some little pots with brushes sticking from them, and a man who had just finished a cigaret took a brush and, dipping it in a pot, began to paint upon the lid of a foot locker. The sergeant of artillery drew near and looked at the device that was being painted. The principal figure of the device was the figure ‘‘nine.””” This same figure was on the other lockers and on the bedding rolls. The sergeant approached the painter. “Say,” said he, “‘is this where the Ninth Trench Mortar Battery hangs out?” “Yuh!” said the painter without looking up. ‘“‘How do they eat here?” “Rotten!” said the painter. organizin’.”’ ‘“‘No cook, huh, and. a jaw-bone mess ser- geant, and no mess fund?”. “You said it,” said the painter. “Git outta my light.” “That settles it,” said the sergeant. He took out the slip of paper that he had consulted before and opened it. For the hundredth time he read the typewritten lines: Special Order No. 42. Extract. The following named enlisted men, having been relieved from duty with their respective regiments, will report without delay to the commanding officer Ninth Trench Mor- tar Battery, Port of Debarkation. Sgt. Robert Eadie, Battery A, 76th Field Artillery. “We're just The sergeant read this order several times, looked up at the sky and the little clouds floating there and then slowly tore the paper into bits. These he tossed into the air and watched them scatter over the roadway. A slight shadow fell across his face. “That was a bright thing to do,” he mut- tered. ‘‘Tomorrow I may be around here picking those up again, with a bold guard giving directions. Well, Steve Brodie is no better man than I am,”’ | THE sergeant walked briskly back ae the road until be came to a low building bearing the sign: OVERSEAS CASUALS There was a door at either end. At the far door men went in alone, but at the near door they came out in groups and were con- ducted across the road into the depths of the cantonment. The guide marched in the rear, perhaps for the sake of politeness, or CoMmicboook Wh) (© 5}