Adventure Magazine Cover — page 180: what you’re looking at

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

178 kindly. “Because it is so far, because we are short of gas and because these hills wear out the brakes and speeds, the car that goes there will remain one week, unless it gets a wounded man to bring in, of course. That isn’t likely though. I understand that both the French and the Boche are only doing patrol work through the woods, there are no trenches and they wouldn’t ‘fire on one another on a bet. It’s a sort of gentleman’s agreement.” Into the hearts of the twenty-six men who had not yet been chosen there came cold fear. The lucky three who had picked easy assignments watched their friends with cal- lous curiosity. No one wanted to go thirty kilometers away to a place called Black Lake even if there was no fighting. Prob- ably there was not a café within miles of it, and certainly no girls. The wretched man who was chosen would be literally en- tembed while the others rioted in Gerard- mer. And for one week! The war might be over before he got back. The lieutenant looked at the anxious faces thoughtfully. “Hartley,” he said suddenly as if to get an unpleasant duty over. Hartley gave a groan of sheer He had smooth black hair and quick biack eyes, he had an ingratiating smile, and his clothes even in the roughest of campaigns were always neat. Until the war he had never been farther than ten miles from Broadway. There was no one in the section who loved so dearly an evening spent over a table slopped with beer suds, or who could catch the eye of a barmaid with greater facility and less fear of rebuke. For him to be isolated in the depths of the mountains was cruel. He himself was convinced of it. “Why pick on me?” he muttered. “T’m not picking on you,” the lieutenant retorted. Even when one did his best he couldn’t satisfy these men. ‘Somebody has to go. Why shouldn’t you?” “I don’t know how to get there and I can’t speak any French,” Hartley an- swered sulkily, digging his toe into the ground. “Sergeant Brooks will show you the road on a map—and if you can’t speak French it’s your own fault. You’ve been over here a year.” “But, Lieutenant, I don’t know a word. If I get stuck off there with the frogs for a week I may get tongue-tied or something. Can’t one of the other fellows go with me Larry Barretto just to keep me company? There’s only four of us working.” 3 The officer considered this. After all it did seem unnecessarily severe. “Very well. Who do you want?” he as- sented. Hartley’s eye roved down the line. ““Oleson,” he said promptly, already more cheerful. “T’ll take Joe Oleson. He’s a pal of mine.” They had shared their food, their clothes and their dangers, but in this moment Ole- son became Hartley’s bitterest enemy. In pure selfishness he too had been wrested from the delights of Gerardmer—its bright streets, its cafés and cinema theater. “Tl do you dirt for this before the week is out, Jim Hartley,” he told himself. “You wait and see.” ‘Section dismissed,” said the lieutenant, blandly unconscious of the discord in his official family. ‘Have a good time, but be discreet and don’t get drunk. Remember this is war.” T WAS war at any rate between Hartley and Oleson. Their ambulance toiled up the steep road from the camp, the silence broken only by the hum of the motor. Neither of the men spoke. They had met after the lieutenant had dismissed them and had expressed opinions freely. Such words as “slacker,” ‘‘yellow” and stronger had been tossed about. Only the presence of the watchful sergeant had prevented open hostilities. Hartley had been aston- ished, hurt and then angry. It never oc- curred to him that Joe Oleson would be unwilling to sacrifice a week of pleasure to be with his friend. Not to do so seemed like gross betrayal. Oleson felt otherwise about it. He sat in the ambulance next to the driver’s seat, the road map clutched in his hand, a blond and sulky giant, his heart seething with bitter- ness. What was the matter with Jim Hart- ley, he wondered. Once when Hartley had been ill, he, Oleson, had given up a leave to Nice in order to stay with him. He had tossed away seven gorgeous days on the Riviera just like that, because he thought the other man had needed him. And this was his reward. To be thrust into the wilds of these mountains simply because Hartley wanted some one to talk to him. “T won’t say a word,” he told him- self and set his lips tighter. cConmiclbool (©