Dave Porter's war honors

“Well, how are you feeling this morning, Dave?”

“A great deal better than I did yesterday, Roger. I think, if all goes well, I’ll be up on my feet by to-morrow.”

“You’ve got to go slow, so the nurse tells me. That wound was rather a serious one, even though it was clean-cut.”

“I suppose I can be thankful that it didn’t go through my lungs instead of my side,” went on Dave, with an attempt at a smile. “How are you feeling, Roger?”

“Oh, I’m all right again.”

“And how is Phil?”

“Here he comes to speak for himself,” answered the young corporal.

About two weeks had elapsed since that memorable day when Dave and the other fighting engineers had made such a record of bravery for themselves. Through them the new road through the forest had been held, and now the American line in that direction had been advanced from eight to ten miles. The Germans in that vicinity were gradually being shoved into a pocket, and the Allies felt certain that sooner or later they would break away and begin a general retreat.

As Dave intimated, the bullet which had prostrated him had passed through his side not a great distance from his right lung. It had been a clean-cut flesh wound, however, and no complications had followed.

At first Dave had been taken to a temporary field hospital, but twenty-four hours later he had been placed in one of the big ambulances along with a number of others and rushed to a base hospital some distance back from the lines, and it was at this place he now rested. He had been given the best of medical attention, and a Red Cross nurse saw to it that he had every comfort.

During those days in the hospital our hero had been visited twice by Captain Obray, who himself had been slightly wounded in the fray. The captain was very grateful to Dave for what he had done, insisting that our hero had saved his life.

“I shall never forget this, Porter, never!” the captain had said, in a voice filled with emotion. “And I want everybody to know it—even your folks at home.”

Many of the engineers had been cited for special bravery, and at the top of the list was Dave’s name, for which, of course, he was pardonably proud. He had likewise been recommended for promotion.

“I understand they are going to offer you a lieutenancy, Dave,” remarked Phil, after he had come up and greeted his chum.

“A lieutenancy!” exclaimed Dave, his eyes lighting up with expectancy.

“That’s the talk around camp. And I don’t know that anybody in our company deserves it more than you do.”

“Phil is right!” added Roger. “And maybe it will come pretty quick, too, Dave. Somebody has got to fill poor Harney’s place.”

“I think you fellows ought to be promoted yourselves.”

“There has been a little talk of making us sergeants,” answered Roger. “Of course, we won’t complain if they insist on shoving us up,” and he grinned. Even though he was the son of a United States senator who had made a great record for himself at Washington, Roger was as modest as any engineer in the corps.

During the days spent in the base hospital our hero had received several letters from home, all of which had given him more or less satisfaction. First had come a communication from his father, giving him many particulars of how matters were going both in business and at home, and stating that he and Dave’s Uncle Dunston were once more active in Liberty Loan work and that Mr. Wadsworth had doubled his previous subscription to the loan.

Then had come a brief communication from his sister Laura, stating that she had heard he was wounded, but was glad to know that it was not serious. She added that she was writing a longer letter to Roger and that Jessie was also sending him a communication which would probably tell him all the things he cared most to know. She added that old Professor Potts had recovered somewhat from his recent indisposition and was again around, spending, as before, most of his time in the Wadsworth library, poring over his precious volumes.

And then two days later had come the long-looked-for letter from Jessie. Still weak from his wounds, Dave’s hands had trembled not a little when he tore this communication open to peruse it.

The heart of the girl whom the young engineer adored was in that letter, and Dave read it over many times. In it Jessie spoke of the shock she had received when the casualty lists in the daily newspapers had contained the information that Dave had been wounded. Then she told how a cablegram from Roger had been received, stating that it was not serious.

“Dear, dear Jessie!” murmured Dave, as he read this paragraph several times. “The best girl that ever lived!”

Jessie then went on to relate about how she had missed some letters from Dave which had since arrived in a bunch, and she added that she herself had forwarded several letters to him which for some reason he could not have received.

There was more of this, Jessie going into some of the details of what had taken place between her and the lieutenant during the entertainments and for a week or two following. She did not say outright, but Dave could read between the lines, and he felt certain that Max Gebauer had in the end made himself quite obnoxious, even though outwardly he had acted the part of a gentleman.

“He must be a regular pill,” was Dave’s mental comment, as he put the letter away. “If he’s that sort, he’d better not come around where I am. He certainly can’t amount to much if he trains with such a chap as Nat Poole.”

Dave was quite curious to know whether Lieutenant Gebauer and Nat Poole had really come over to France. But there was no way of finding out. He questioned a number with whom he came in contact, who had been at various American camps throughout France, but not one could give him a word concerning the pair.

During those days came another cause for gratitude. Buster Beggs had recovered from the gas attack which had laid him low, and had once more joined the engineers at the front. His eyes were a trifle weak as yet, and he had to be careful of what he ate for fear of getting sick at the stomach, but otherwise he was as well as ever. Shadow was also around again.

It was a great day for Dave when he was allowed to get up and put on his clothes once more and go out into the sunshine. He felt quite shaky, and he was glad enough to rest after walking but a short distance. The base hospital had once been a château, and in the garden was a beautiful fountain surrounded by flowers, and here the convalescent soldiers gathered on benches to regain their health and to talk over the war.

“I think the war will end in another three or four months,” said one of the convalescents.

“That’s right; they must be pretty close to the end of their resources,” put in another.

“Don’t you believe that, Jack,” came from a third. “They must have been close to the end of their resources before, but now you must remember they are plundering the Russians of everything of use in that country. They’ll be able to get immense quantities of food and war material that were meant for the Russian army, and that will keep them going for a long while.”

“The collapse of Russia will undoubtedly help the Germans to continue the conflict,” said Dave. “But I believe that sooner or later they’ll have to give in. They must know that they cannot stand against all of us combined.”

“I’ll tell you where we have got them,” said another of the convalescents, a marine who had seen some fierce fighting ever since the Americans had entered the contest. “The Heinies can fight well enough while they are in a bunch, but as soon as you separate them they become next to helpless. Their individual soldiers don’t seem to have any initiative. Now with our men it’s just the opposite. They’ll fight well enough together, but let them get separated, and each man is on his mettle to do the very best he knows how and make a record for himself.”

“You are right there,” replied Dave. “And that puts me in mind of a story I heard only yesterday. A Western cowboy, who knew all about rounding up cattle but very little about army life, was in one of the advances and all at once became separated from the rest of his command. He wandered around until he came to a trench, and then found a dugout containing some German soldiers.

“Now it seems this cowboy had been on kitchen duty for his company some days before, and as he didn’t like peeling potatoes and doing stunts like that he was very much out of humor. He pointed his gun at the dugout and yelled to the Germans to come out. One of them held up his hands and managed to ask in broken English what was wanted.

“‘You come out of that or I’ll fire this hand-grenade at you!’ yelled the cowboy, and flourished something in his hand.

“The Germans became very much frightened, and one after another came out of the dugout and lined up, hands in the air. There were five of them, and the cowboy motioned to them to march with their hands up in the direction of the American line. Once or twice the Germans balked, but every time they did this the cowboy made a swing with his hand as if to throw a grenade at them.

“Finally they got near the American lines and some other soldiers came out to see what was doing.

“‘I’ve got five of the Heinies here,’ announced the cowboy calmly. ‘And it only took this baked potato to bring ’em in,’ and then he showed the supposed hand-grenade, which was only a common potato which he had kept as a memento of his hours in the camp kitchen.”

“Some potato!” cried one of the listeners.

“That was sure a raw deal,” said another laughing.

“No raw deal at all—the potato was baked,” answered Dave, with a grin, and at this there was another laugh.

A few days later Dave was getting ready to leave the hospital. Once on his feet, his strength had returned rapidly, and he now insisted that he be allowed to return to his command.

“You are certainly a plucky soldier,” remarked the Red Cross nurse who had been taking care of him. “Not many of the boys are as anxious to leave as you are.”

Dave was sitting on a bench waiting for the lorry which was to take him and a number of others back to the front, when an ambulance came up with some wounded. Three were on stretchers, but others were able to get out themselves and walk into the hospital.

“Dave Porter!”

The cry came from one of the soldiers who had descended from the ambulance, a fellow in the regulation khaki and with his left hand done up in a sling. Our hero stared at the new arrival in amazement.

It was Nat Poole!