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Show I RK? S.ee Here, gS j Private Hargrove! Vjk ty Marion Hargrove .c Irr i U 1 - s ; ! ' THj STORY SO FAR: Private Marion 1 Hargrove, a newspaper man before nil ) Induction Into the army, has been recelv- ' lnf his basic training at Fort Braes, i N. C. Be has gone through the "hardest" weeks of his army career and has been classified as a cook. In addition, he has pent a considerable share of his spare time on KP duty. He Is familiar with the liner points of "goldbrlcking" and "shooting "shoot-ing the breeze." He has mastered most d the army slang expressions and has rather completely adjusted himself to training camp routine. As we pick np the story Private Hargrove and some of his buddies are having supper and are about to hand the mess sergeant bis share of the day's abuse. CHAPTER Xn Orvllle D. Pope, Mess Sergeant of Headquarters Battery and master mas-ter of all he surveys (so long as he itays In the kitchen), strolled past our table like a happy night-club owner inspecting his saloon. Photographer Busheml lifted a forkful of creamed potatoes to his mouth, made a sour face and Inserted Insert-ed the potatoes as If they were seasoned sea-soned with liniment Don Bishop, the public relations reporter who sometimes shows a streak of sheer anity, lifted his coffee, held his nose and drank it. "Sergeant Pope," I said in a small voice, "earlier in the course of this upper I told you that I had never tasted anything harder or drier than the bread you served us tonight. I I want to take that back, Pope. When I said that, I hadn't tasted your peanut butter." "You're the only ones I ever hear griping about the chow in this battery," bat-tery," said Pope. "You're the only ones I ever have trouble with. You three and Mulvehill. If I'll pay for your food, won't you please take all your meals at the Service Club?" "Let's leave Mulvehill's name out of this," I said. "Poor, poor, old Mulvehill. We knew him well. He was a good boy, was the Lieuthom-as." Lieuthom-as." "I noticed the place is so quiet to-1 to-1 night that you can even hear Bu-ihemi Bu-ihemi eating his celery," said the iergeant. "Where is your dear friend Mulvehill, the bum?" "You have run him over the hill," laid Bishop. "Your food and your mess hall and your brutishly foul mouth have driven him away. He has deserted from the Army and his guilt Is upon your hands." "You know the one thing that's missing from this meal the one thing that would make it perfect?" rSked Bushemi. "Ice cream?" asked the mess sergeant. ser-geant. "Chloroform," said Busheml. Pope slapped his forehead mlg'it-fly. mlg'it-fly. "Why couldn't I have been a dud-picker, a horse valet, a suicide lubmarineman anything but a mess sergeant? Where Is Mulvehill?" Mulve-hill?" He wrinkled his forehead. "Say! He wasn't here at breakfast break-fast either." "Nor lunch," said Bishop. "Nor supper, nor lunch, nor breakfast yesterday." yes-terday." ! "He has gone over the hill," I laid, gloomily. "He has deserted." "Let's see," said the sergeant. "He wasn't here all day today and he didn't come in yesterdoy and he didn't show up for supper the night before last. Is he sick?" "He would have been," said Bishop, Bish-op, "if he hadn't got a decent meal soon." "I can remember Mulvehill just like he was right here with us even now," I said. "He was a fine, noble, no-ble, sensitive lad. He had a beautiful beauti-ful career before him In the Army. Fate can ruin any of us by tossing in the tiniest little monkey wrench or the toughest little biscuit I hated to see Mulvehill go over the hill." "Cut the clowning," the sergeant wailed, convinced at last that Mulvehill Mulve-hill had flown. "You can't make me think that he left because of my food. Where is he?" "That," sighed Bishop, "is what the War Department would like to know." '. . yope began drumming unconscl-', unconscl-', sly on the table. "I know my food Is as good as any in the Center. That ain't it Did he take offense at something I said to him and start eating at the Service Club?" Acton Dennington Hawkins the Third, chief cook, passed by. "Where's your friend Mulvehill?" he asked us. "Oh," said Busheml, forgetting the play, "Mulvehill's on furlough." The mess sergeant rose with a Toar. "The day shall come!" he creamed. "You'll all be on KP one of these daysl Oh, will you suffer nd will I enjoy myself I Finish your upper and get out of my mess haUI Get outl GET OUT!" I -St- "As If I didn't have enough trouble trou-ble on my hands with payday," said Top Sergeant Tate, "now I have to be exposed to the sight of you. Be brief." "Sergeant," I began, "when I hear people say a soldier can't live on the pay he makes, I'd like to how them myself as a living proof that he can." "Quit beating your gums," he aid, "and get to the point. You didn't come In here to compliment the Army on its pay. And take your cap off when you're in the orderly room." "I didn't come to compliment nobody no-body nor nothing," I said, laying my i I i cap on the corner of his desk. "I Just came in to see if the War Department De-partment is mad at me. They haven't given me a cent of salary since the first of October." "What in the sweet name of heaven heav-en are you talking about?" the top kick hooted, handing me back the cap. "We've had two regular paydays, pay-days, including the one today. And we've had two supplementary payrolls pay-rolls for people who missed the regular reg-ular paydays." "Mind you," I put In, "I'm not complaining. I eat regularly and I have a roof over my head. I can get haircuts and movie tickets and cigarettes and shoe polish on credit, but I certainly would like a little cash spending money from time to time." "Well," he groaned, slapping his desk wearily, "here we go again, Hargrove, the boy who makes a top kick's life exciting! Hargrove the hopeless the sloppy bunk on Inspection In-spection day, the soap in the soup, the thorn in the side. Hargrove, the boy who can take the simplest problem and reduce it to its most confusing form. Now let's start at the beginning and take the whole thing slowly. You haven't been paid since October first. How come?" "That was because when the November No-vember first payday came around, I had just got here. I signed the October payroll in my old battery." "All right," he said patiently, counting off a finger. "That's one payday. That brings us up to November No-vember tenth, the day of the supplementary supple-mentary payroll, when you should have got the pay you missed on the first. Did you sign the supplementary supple-mentary payroll for that occasion?" "Yes, sir," I insisted. "Then when the supplementary payday came around, something happened. Or to be more correct, nothing happened. I still didn't get paid." "That's two paydays you missed," the sergeant sighed. "I will check into the second later. Now what about today's pay?" "I missed out on that one too. The battery commander couldn't find my signature on the payroll." He patted me on both shoulders, a little heavily, and I cowered. "Wait just a minute. Private Hargrove," Har-grove," he said sweetly. "Let sar-gie-wargie see what he can find out about the nasty old payroll." He returned in a few minutes, frowning wearily. "Private Hargrove," Har-grove," he sighed, "dear Private Hargrove! You didn't draw your pay on the tenth of November because be-cause you weren't here on the tenth! You were on furlough! And you didn't sign the payroll for today because be-cause you were on furlough while it was being signed. Your modest pay "Wait just a minute, Private Hargrove," Har-grove," he said sweetly, "Let sar-gie-wargie see what he can find oat about our nasty payroll." for October has been in the battery safe for three weeks, just waiting for you to get around to picking it up." He took a small envelope from behind be-hind his back. "Twenty-one dollars for services rendered through the month of October. Harrumph! Minus Mi-nus two-forty for theater tickets, minus mi-nus a dollar for haircuts, minus seven dollars for canteen checks. Private Hargrove, I present to you your October wages ten dollars and sixty cents!" I took the money, looked at it tenderly, ten-derly, and crammed it into my pocket -IBs-Winter, at last is upon us, in the rear ranks, the surest indication it to be found in reveille. All through the late summer and the fall, we hopped out of bed as oon as the whistle blew. Now we crawl grumbllngly out when the sergeant ser-geant puts the whistle to his lips for a "fall-out!" blast. Since it is still dark when we stand reveille, and since we are aided occasionally by a heaven-sent fog, there are many saviors sa-viors of democracy who slip on merely a pair of shoes (partially laced), a pair of trousers, and a field jacket. The field jacket, when buttoned all the way to the collar, hides the absence of shirt and tie and the sergeant is none the wiser. In Headquarters Battery, the process of getting up In the morning morn-ing has sunk into a rut of repetition. It's the same procedure every morning. morn-ing. Sergeant Koughton. platoon leader, lead-er, toots his brass at six o'clock and a few energetic soldiers at the other end of the squadroom rise and begin the morning with sicken-ingly sicken-ingly cheerful horseplay. They yank the covers off their neighbors. The neighbors yank the covers back on. Private First Class Bishop, unofficial un-official guardian of the public relations rela-tions staff, rises from his bunk which is next to mine. "Hargrove! Bushemi! Bushe-mi! Get up! Salute the morn!" Then he yells down the length of the squadroom to the bed of Private First Class Thomas ("Thoss") Mulvehill. Mul-vehill. Mulvehill, every morning, has already al-ready been forcibly ejected from his bed by his wild neighbors. He is, by this time, silting on the edge of his bunk, with his great head sunk between his knees and his fingers fumbling with his shoelaces. In a thick and fiery Irish brogue, he is berating whatever forces of destiny put him in this mad corner of the squadroom. I stick a cautious toe out from under un-der the covers. The outer air isn't cold but, then again, it isn't warm. I roll over and look at the next "Git out of there or I'll dump yon out." bunk, where Private Bushemi is snoring gently. I roll back, get comfortable, com-fortable, and pull the cover over my head. "Hargrove!" roars Bishop. "Get your lazy bones out of bed! It's five after six!" "Call me at ten after six," I mutter. mut-ter. "Better still just sing out when my name is called at reveille." Private Bishop reaches over suddenly sud-denly and rips the blankets from the bunk. I rise, cursing him soundly. sound-ly. Private Bushemi is still sleeping, sleep-ing, with a sweet and childish smile on his face. I lift a foot and give him a firm shove in the posterior. "Git out of there, you blankerty-blanked blankerty-blanked dash-dash, shiftless, good-for-nothing bum!" I shout, giving him two or three more shoves. "Git out of there or I'll dump you out!" I reach over and grab the edge of Bushemi's bunk. I joggle it slightly slight-ly to give the impression that I am just about to overturn the bunk. Bushemi bounces out of bed, swinging swing-ing wildly. "You're going to get funny just one morning too often, and I'm going to beat the eternal perdition out of both of you. It's getting to the point where it ain't funny." Then he begins mumbling aimlessly under his breath as he steps into his trousers. Somehow, we manage to get Into the second shoe "just as the whistle blows to call us outside. We shiver shiv-er in the dark cold as section leaders lead-ers call the roll, mostly from memory. mem-ory. The second section of the first platoon is always the last to finish roll call. We stand there listening. "P-o-g-g-I!" "Hyoh!" "Pulver!" "Here!" and then the piece de re-sistence: re-sistence: "Peacock!" Always the answer comes in the same way an unbelievably deep bass, long-drawn-out and rumbling: "Heeeeeeere!" The second platoon snickers and titters, tit-ters, Just as it did the day before, and the top kick shouts, "Dismissed!" "Dis-missed!" Bushemi heads straight back for his bunk. "Call me at chowtime, will you?" n Bill, a friend of Bushemi's and mine in Charlotte, drives a street bus. Before he began his service as 'a driver, he served a hitch in the Army. Like all ex-service men, he's ready to drop everything and Just shoot the breeze any time the conversation turns to the Army. "There was a young first-class private got on my bus last week," he told me, "and he sat In the long seat behind me, so we got started talking. Well, I thought I'd snow him under, telling him about the time I was in the Army. So, just to start the ball rolling and get the talk turned to the Army, I asked him how long he'd been In. " 'Oh, I've been In for well over eight months,' he said, like he was Just starting his thirtieth year of service. Then he started wiping his sleeves so I'd be sure to notice his private-first-class stripe. "I thought I'd let him blow off about his stripe, so I asked him, 'Say, what does that stripe stand for?' " 'Oh, that,' he said, as much as to say aw-shucks-that-ain't-nothing. That just means I'm a sergeaat' " 'Is that right?' I asked him, looking sort of widemoutbed at him. " 'Yessir,' he said, real casual, 'in the Army only eight months and I've already been made sergeant.' " 'Well, tell me," I said, 'what grade of sergeant are you? I've seen some sergeants have three stripes and then I've seen them have as many as six. How come that?' TO BE CONTINUED) |