Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 100: what you’re looking at

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

90 Sadface Whelen was not a bitter man or a hard one. His heart was tender as a woman’s toward every living creature but one. Years passed. For Whelen they passed as the west winds in Samar over the glim- mering valley grasses. But, whether in Manila, with its punky smells, or in Pekin or the dozen other places that duty sent him, Whelen never forgot Bill McCarty. Yet, never in all that time did they meet. Fate had reserved their meeting for a more dramatic time and place. | in 1917 America turned her hand to the grim work of war, and old Sadiace went overseas with the Marines. He won his share of honors at Soissons, at Belleau and in the Argonne. Twice he was cited, and a French general kissed his leathery cheeks ‘after pinning on his blouse a Croix de Guerre with the palm. Even “ Black Jack ” Pershing, after presenting him with the Dis- tinguished Service Cross, shook his hand, and said: ‘You are a credit not only to your regiment, but to the whole A. E. F.” Even then Whelen’s downdrawn lips did not twist into a smile. He stood stiffly at attention, and saluted when the ceremony was over, but he was wondering in his heart if Bill McCarty had won any medals. Not much chance of that spaniel’s being cited— unless it was in a court-martial report. When the war was over Sadiace went with the Army of Occupation to Germany, and eventually back to the States to the peaceful monotony of garrison life. He heard, as every one else did, that Congress was debating a living memorial to the men who had died in France. When it was decided on, and later when informed that he was to be one of the buglers, he was rather pleased. There were memories of evenings in stone floored kitchens, with a bottle of vin rouge on the table, a pipe between one’s teeth, and an admiring audi- ence to listen to one’s barrack room French. He thought of the long white road that led from Paris to Chateau-Thierry, on past Belleau to shattered Soissons; of the brave boys who had trod it and who would march no more. He saw the wheat field again, sown with machine gun fire; the hunting lodge on the hill, and he remembered how good the slum tasted after days on iron ra- tions. It would be rather nice to go back and look things over after these years. Then they told him that Sergeant Bugler McCarty was to be his companion at Bel- leau! The shock of it stunned Whelen for a moment. It wasn’t merely coincidence. The thing had the look of fate. He stood gazing at the colonel in a dazed sort of a way fora moment. Then he said: “J beg pardon, sir, but this McCarty—do you happen to know who he is?” Shoulder straps referred to a memoran- dum before him. “Sergeant Bugler William McCarty, Company B. One Hundredth Infantry.” “Yes, sir. If you don’t mind—seein’ as I’m to be with him for quite a spell— would you tell me where he come from?” ‘“‘ His home address is Peregrine Street—” That was enough. Sadface Whelen knew that after all these years Bill McCarty and he were to meet again. They would be together, the only Americans in a provincial French town, the only living ones, at least. Every night they would stand together, and pay their tribute to those men who had died for love of country; he, who had been decorated for bravery, and the man—the ‘coward—who had watched poor little Whip- py O’Brien die! il. It never occurred to Sadface to ask that he be not sent. Years of discipline had taught him never to question orders—re- gardiess of what they meant to him. He had dreamed of meeting McCarty again; of punishing somehow in Whippy’s name—of searing him with disgrace, and then leaving, But to live in the same little town! To see him face to face every day, and be unable to escape the intimacies that such contact must bring; must, unless one set his face sternly against it. And that was just what Sadface Whelen proposed to do. He would make the coward of Peregrine Street suffer a month for every second that little Whippy had taken to die in the river’s dirty water. After all, it wasn’t so bad. He had waited twenty-five years for the chance to Comicoooks (S@