Argosy All-Story Weekly, July 11, 1925 — page 32: what you’re looking at

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

186 ‘“‘ Orderly,” said he, “ are you acquainted with Marine Serpel?” “ Aye, sir. He is my buddy.” “ How does he come by three chevrons?” “France, China, and the Philippines, sir.” “ And he holds the Congressional Medal of Honor?” Ave: Site. “é Howe?” “ Belleau Wood, sir.” ‘ Division?” “The First, sir.” ‘¢ Service?” “ Machine gunner, foot transport, first class.” “Well, if he was a machine gunner with the first division in Belleau Wood and holds a Congressional Medal of Honor, how is it he has no Croix de Guerre?” The orderly indicated his first human feeling, one of surprised refutation. “Vou mean that frog medal?” he que- ried. “YT mean the French official decoration of the war cross. Ht was usually issued before ours, or in conjunction with them.” “ He’s got that too,” exclaimed the or-_ derly, “‘ with palms!” “ He’s noted everything else about him- self in this letter ’—the captain indicated the painfully indicted epistle before him— “ why did he neglect his Croix de Guerre?” Marine Reverdy thought intently for a minute. Then his face lit. ‘‘ Maybe,” he hazarded, “ he can’t spell it.” The captain regarded the accouterment of his orderly. The freshly applied piping on his belt, cap band and canvas shoes was as conscientiously apportioned as the pow- der on a débutante’s nose; the creases in his trousers were of razorlike keenness; his tunic clung to his lean hips without the - slightest angle; his aquiline profile could have served as a model for soldierly aplomb. “You are aware,” said the captain after a moment, “that it is essential that an orderly should observe discretion and care- fully keep his own counsel. He is not to _ talk about what he may see or hear while “a on duty here. Do you understand that?” fis _ Marine Reverdy, eyes straight ahead, - — replied: ““ Aye, sir.” ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. / “Remind Marine Serpel of that, and—” Marine Reverdy breathed more freely. ‘““Go to the brig and bring Yeoman Bul- litt here,” the captain added. A few minutes later Cyrus stood before the captain in his office. He had no means of knowing that the audacity. of a marine in appealing against all rules of battleship discipline over the head of the executive officer direct to the captain himself had brought about this interview with one whose mere word held the power of life and death over a thousand men. He only knew that he had been more than seven hours in a durance which, how- ever humane its accouterment, symbolized for him the essence of degradation. The seven hours seemed like seven years of slow torture. For the first time he was glad his father was dead and could not know of what had befallen his adored son. Captain Vosmer-regarded him with of- ficial scrutiny divorced from severity. He looked beyond and saw Marine Reverdy just outside the doorway. “Orderly,” he called, “ close the door.” Now they were alone. “ Are you not the young man,” he asked, “who borrowed my French ‘ Ballistics ’?” ** Aye, sir.” Cyrus slowly raised his eyes, brimming with woe, to a level with the keen glance of his commander. ) “Sit down.” The captain indicated a chair at the side of his desk. The com- mand and the gesture were alike eloquent, and affected Cyrus like a glow of hospi- tality at the close of a weary journey. He, a prisoner for the brig, told to sit alone m the presence of the captain of the ship! | He removed his round, starched canvas cap, and sat gingerly on the edge of the ““ Now tell me, Bullitt, why you are in the brig, and remember that I have no other version of the affair than what you will have to say for yourself.” “I entered the starboard sixteen-inch turret yesterday afternoon during fire drill without permission, sir.” | “That might be a serious offense. Were you aware of what you were doing?” = comicbook