Don Strong, American

Front matter

CJPO

By William Heyliger

High Benton

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

I News from France

II Lining Up for Duty 20

CHAPTER I T HE bedroom door was slightly ajar

and a light, turned low in the hall, sent a weak, pallid ray of illumination into the room. The boy on the bed stirred restlessly, sighed, and settled to sound sleep again. A moment passed. The restless movement was repeated as though something insistent, something that would not be denied, called, and called, and called to his senses to rouse themselves. Abruptly, all at once, he was awake in that almost dark room in the dead hours of the night.

He thought he had heard a sound. But though he listened intently his ears caught nothing but the faint, dry rattle of dead leaves

i on the porch roof outside his window. Yet, so sure was he that he had been awakened by some unusual noise, that he sat up in bed. There had been some robberies in a village farther up the valley — At that thought the goose-flesh ran over his back, but his feet, moving carefully and feeling for the floor, did not hesitate. If there were burglars in the house something had to be done — just what he did not know. He didn’t want intruders prowling about and terrifying his mother and his sisters. He had heard that the surest way to scare away thieves was to make a tremendous racket. Perhaps if he crept out into the hall and rolled an iron dumb-bell down the stairs —

“Aroooooooo! Aroooooooo! Aroooooooo!” wailed the whistle at the railroad roundhouse.

He recognized it as the sound that had awakened him, and at once his fears were gone. Hurrying to the window he parted the curtains. But though he looked both east and west he could see no fire glare in the sky. If the whistle was blowing for a railroad fire the blaze was probably far down the line. He turned back toward the bed.

“Screeeee, screeee, screeee, screeee, screeee!” wailed a locomotive whistle. “Screeee, screeee, screeee, screeee!”

That second whistle, joining the first, had a disquieting sound. The night began to take on an air of mystery and alarm. The boy forgot that he had started back for bed and began to dress. A door opened.

“Don!” a woman’s voice called.

“Yes, mother.” She came into the room trembling, plainly afraid. Another whistle joined the growing din. “I thought it was a fire,” Don Strong said, “but I can’t see any glare.” He went to the window again, and presently was aware that his sisters Barbara and Beth had joined his mother.

The little town of Chester was awakening. One moment a house would be dark — the next, an upstairs room would be bright. Shades were raised and lights streamed forth to reveal lawns, gravel walks and picket fences painted white, and a vague, ghostly outline of hedges.

“Don I” Barbara cried suddenly, “can it be — ”

From some place near at hand a bugle sounded.

“Bang!” barked a revolver in the next street. “Bang-bang-bang-bang.”

“It’s peace,” cried Barbara. “Don!” She caught him by the shoulder, whirled him about and began to dance with him. “Germany has surrendered; Germany has surrendered.”

He tore himself away, raced downstairs, and presently appeared in the street banging a dish-pan. All Chester was now awake. Another revolver answered the first. To the north a vivid flare of red fire turned the night crimson. Church bells began to ring. The night grew wild with the clamor of a people rejoicing.

Into the east crept a blush of rose-colored dawn. And at that moment the notes of a cornet rose shrill and clear above the tumult:

Oh, say can you see by the dawn’s early light,

What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming—

A thrill, first hot, then cold, then hot again, raced through Don’s body. The dish-pan was forgotten. Stiffly he stood at attention. One thought ran over and over again through his mind — victory for the right, victory for the just, victory for the free. The cornet sang on:

Oh, thus be it ever when freemen shall stand Between their loved homes and the war’s desolation —

There was a mist in his eyes when the last note sounded. Soberly he came into the house. His mother was in the kitchen, preparing breakfast and weeping quietly. The end of the war meant much to her. Mr.

Strong had left his carpenter’s bench in the basement of the house and had gone to a river city to do his share toward victory in a shipyard. Don tip-toed his way upstairs. Beth was making her bed. He tapped on Barbara’s door but received no answer. He pushed open the door a bit, and then drew back. Barbara was on her knees in prayer.

“That’s Barbara, though,” Don said huskily, and went to his own room.

There, with his chin cupped in one hand, he stared out the window at the road past his house, brown in its autumn dress of fallen leaves. The war had brought great changes and great problems. First Mr. Wall, the scoutmaster of Chester Troop, had gone into the army — and because there had been nobody else to do the w r ork he had tried to act as scoutmaster in Mr. Wall’s place. Then his father had gone to the shipyard — and he had found himself, except for those few Saturday and Sunday hours when his father was 6 home, the man of the house. He had not been able to fill his father’s shoes, and he had not been able to measure up to Mr. Wall’s standard as scoutmaster. Nobody had expected him to do all this, but he had demanded it of himself. One scout, Bobby Brown, had drifted away — He roused himself and sighed contentedly. Well, the war was over. His responsibilities were at an end. His father and Mr. Wall would soon be coming home and Mr. Wall would take care of Bobby Brown.

Beth called cheerily that breakfast was ready, and he went downstairs. The whistles had ceased their din, and now one of the town’s fire engines was running through the streets, its siren tooting valiantly. At intervals somebody in an adjoining street was firing a cannon. Don was too excited to eat much — he noticed that his mother did not eat at all. A whistle came from the front gate. Barbara went to the window.

“It’s Andy Ford,” she said.

Don bolted from the house. Already the street had taken on a holiday air. Flags fluttered from many windows, and men, on shaky ladders, were balancing perilously as they tacked streamers of red, white and blue along porch copings. Andy, all on edge from excitement, came into the yard as Don came out of the house.

“Parade to-night,” he called. “There’s a sign at the bulletin board at the railroad station. How about the scouts? Will we parade, too?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” said Don. Something was wrong with his voice for it trembled and shook and broke a bit.

“I’ll post a notice on the board, and I’ll post one at Troop headquarters.” Andy was impatient to be off again, but another thought stayed him. “Think Bobby’ll turn out?”

“Miss a victory parade?” Don demanded incredulously.

“Well, he — he’s missed a lot of other things. I’ll post those notices. See you later.”

Don went back to the house with slower steps. It seemed inconceivable that any Boy Scout would miss doing his part in celebrating American victory. And yet — Don gathered his books and went off to school. He might just as well have left the books at home, for it speedily became apparent that the high school classes would not meet to-day. There was a short assembly, a husky talk by the high school principal whose two boys lay dead in France, a prayer, the singing of the Star Spangled Banner, and then a tumultuous breaking up as the scholars crowded toward the doors.

Don found himself next to Tim Lally, one of the leaders of Chester Troop. Tim’s freckled face was fiery red as though something inside of him had reached the boiling point and threatened to burst. As they came out of the building Bobby Brown broke from a 9 crowd of boys near the curb and began to run down the street.

“Bobby!” Don cried. “Oh, Bobby!”

The boy must have heard, but he did not glance back.

“Probably gone to spend the day at the bowling alley,” Tim growled. He stopped short all at once and gave Don a frowning, suspicious look. “Will he be with us to-night?”

“Of course he will,” said Don.

But would he? The thought plagued Don long after he had left Tim. He went around to Troop headquarters, let himself in and worked for a while on some Troop records that had fallen behind. Through a side window he could see Mr. Wall’s house not fifty feet away. A service flag that the scouts had made hung from the porch railing. Somewhere within those walls Mrs. Wall was probably weeping happily — just as his mother had wept. He put down his pen and stared out io of the window seeing nothing of the road and its brown, leaf-bare trees. Mr. Wall was some place in France with the fighting A.E.F., America was celebrating the peace and the victory that its army had won — and two Scouts had said that another Scout would not bother his head to parade. Don sighed, and put the records away, and locked the door.

At seven o’clock he was back again. The town, which had grown quiet during the afternoon, was becoming noisy again with a din of bells, horns and whistles. The scouts of Chester Troop, assembling at headquarters, seemed unable to control themselves, and ran headlong in and out of the building and made a tremendous racket drawing staffs from the racks.

Don, standing to one side, watched for one face. Perhaps, he told himself in an effort to encourage his drooping spirits, Bobby was about but had not yet come in for his staff. He motioned to Tim Lally.

ii

“Fall in,” Tim cried. “Fall in, fellows.”

Don stood in the doorway until the last flustered straggler was in line. He saw Tim and Andy count the files, look at each other and shake their heads. He knew what that meant. Bobby Brown had deserted the Troop on victory night!

“Forward !” he cried. The lines were alert. “March!” Away they went.

In front of the Town Hall it seemed that bedlam had broken loose. Don found the fire companies already formed, and marched Chester Troop right in behind them. A lodge took position behind the Troop. Aerial bombs were exploding in the sky. Along Main Street a dozen pans of red fire were burning, making the thoroughfare seem like a fiery canyon. Abruptly the drums sounded the long roll, the band crashed into the opening bars of a march, and the parade moved off.

The red fire was blinding to the eyes and filled the street with a heavy smoke. The cheering crowds on the sidewalks seemed ghostly and indistinct. Half a mile, and the parade swung round a corner. Don, glancing back to give the command, almost forgot to call the order. Bobby Brown was in line!

“He slipped into his place as we passed the bowling alley,” Tim Lally growled.

Don sighed. Why couldn’t Bobby have come to headquarters and have started with the others? It meant only a difference of fifteen minutes.

“He’s the only scout in line without a staff,” said Tim.

An hour later the parade was over. The scouts were not to disband until they reached Troop headquarters; but long before the building came into view Don knew that Bobby’s place in line was once more vacant.

“He sneaked off as soon as we got back to the Town Hall,” said Andy Ford.

“If it wasn’t for breaking ranks I’d have i3 gone after him,” Tim Lally said angrily. “Somebody’s got to talk to the fellow.”

Don nodded soberly. As he walked toward home the problem of Bobby lay heavy on his mind. “I’ll talk to him at Friday night’s meeting,” he decided.

But Bobby did not come to Friday night’s meeting. Wally Woods brought word that Joe Rivers was sick and that Bobby had taken his place as pin-boy at the Chester Alleys.

“Oh, how I love that Joe,” Tim grunted. “Every time I meet him he gives me one of those crooked grins. Some day — ” Tim’s freckled fists clinched. “Going to see Bobby to-morrow, Don?”

Don shook his head. “My father comes home to-morrow.” Every Saturday since Mr. Strong had gone to the shipyard he had returned to his family for a twenty-four hour visit. To-morrow’s homecoming, Don thought, would be a real one. The war was over and his father would come home to stay.

In the morning he went down to the cellar of the house where Mr. Strong conducted his carpenter shop. He sprinkled the floor and swept it, and set the work-bench to rights. He got out paint and freshened the business sign on the front porch. Everything was now ready, he thought, for his father to resume his old occupation as village carpenter.

But when Mr. Strong turned in at the gate that afternoon and saw the sign, newlypainted, his face clouded.

“Hello, dad,” Barbara called. “What’s the matter with America?”

Without quite knowing why, Don suspected that something was wrong. After supper his father and his mother went upstairs, and he heard them talking earnestly. He looked at Barbara, but Barbara’s face held as much puzzled concern as did his own. By and by his mother returned to the dining-room.

“Your father wants you, Donald,” she said.

Uneasy, he went upstairs. His father was i5 slowly pacing up and down one of the bedrooms.

“Don, how many soldiers have we in Europe?”

“Almost two million.”

“What are we going to do, let them walk home? Are we going to forget them now that the war is over?”

“Of course not.”

“The Government needs ships to bring them home, ships to resume the world’s commerce, ships to send food to Europe. Men must stay at the shipyards and build these ships.”

Don thought of the sign he had painted and of the shop he had swept.

“They have made me a foreman,” Mr. Strong went on, “and they have asked me to stay. They will need me for six more months.”

Don’s heart sank.

“I know that playing man-of-the-house has 1 6 been hard/’ Mr. Strong went on gravely. “If you think you would rather not face another six months of it, just say the word. You’re only a boy and you’re entitled to your boyhood and your good times. Think it over.”

Mr. Strong went downstairs, and Don dropped into a chair. Two million men in Europe who must be brought home, Mr. Wall among them. He drew a deep breath. It was hard to give up the pictures he had painted — his father home again, the load of responsibility off his shoulders. But — but there was only one thing for him to do.

Strangely, after the first rush of disappointment, it was not the responsibility of the house that worried him — it was the responsibility of the Troop. His mother and his sisters helped to carry on the house, but he had to run the Troop alone. If Mr. Wall were back — He sat up straight. Why, the war i7 was over; Mr. Wall would soon be coming home. His regiment might sail next week or the week after. Then the problem of Bobby would be off his mind and stronger hands than his would deal with a situation that had become too big for him.

“You can count on me to do my share,” he said when he came downstairs.

“I knew we could,” his father said simply. Evidently he had told Barbara and Beth, for Barbara began to applaud.

There came a sudden interruption. The porch steps echoed the rush of feet. Frantic knuckles pounded for admission. Beth hurried to the door.

“Where’s Don?” Tim Lally’s voice demanded breathlessly.

“In the dining-room,” Beth answered.

Tim charged headlong into the room. At sight of the entire family he halted, and a rush of blood swept his face. “Excuse me,” he stammered. “I — I was in such a hurry — ”

“All right, Tim,” said Mr. Strong; “what’s wrong?”

“The Germans have shot Mr. Wall,” Tim gasped.

Chapter II

A LL in a moment Don was bewildered and sick with grief. Mr. Wall had been one of the best pals the boys had ever had. He lurched back a step, blindly, and a chair fell. Nobody seemed to notice the sound.

“When — ” Don’s voice was almost a whisper. “When was he killed?”

“He wasn’t killed,” Tim cried. “He’s wounded.”

Slowly the room came back to normal. The color returned to Barbara’s cheeks. Beth crossed the room and picked up the overturned chair.

“I wanted to tell you first,” Tim choked, “and then tell the others.”

“Is he seriously wounded?”

“I don’t know. I was at the railroad station, and I heard the message come over the wire. When I heard the word ‘wounded’ I forgot to wait for anything else. I’m going around and tell Andy, Alex and the others.”

Tim departed, and the family began to talk excitedly — but Don sat silent. He had figured on Mr. Wall coming home and leading the Troop again, but it might be months before the scoutmaster came back. He might never come back if his wound led to his — Don could not say that word. He left the room. Barbara followed him to the hall.

“You were counting on Mr. Wall’s help, weren’t you?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said simply. After a moment Barbara’s hand gently patted his shoulder. Barbara seemed to always understand.

He let himself out of the house and walked away through the night, feeling suddenly years older. There was a light burning in Mr. Wall’s house, and in the Troop building a dozen scouts sat in the dark and talked in low voices. Don took his place among them and for a moment the talking ceased.

“It’s only a slight wound,” said Tim.

It seemed to Don that the whole night turned brighter. He found his voice and spoke of past experiences with the scoutmaster — hikes, days in camp, nights right here in Troop headquarters.

“He — he was all right,” Bobby Brown said huskily.

The night grew late and the gathering broke up. Don was the last to go. The light still burned in Mr. Wall’s house. On a sudden impulse he went to the door and rang the bell. Mrs. Wall answered the summons.

“The scouts are very sorry,” Don said lamely.

Mrs. Wall’s voice broke a little. “We’re proud of him, aren’t we?”

“Very proud,” said Don, suddenly choking.

He walked home fighting the desire to cry.

There had been other casualties from Chester, but this was the first one that touched him directly. Even the night wind, whispering through the trees, seemed to be grieving.

At the end of ten days Joe Rivers returned to the bowling alley, and Bobby Brown ceased to set pins for the bowlers. Joe had always been brown, and hard, and thin, but now he was gaunt. Soon his cough was common gossip among the boys. He treasured a little brown pipe that he called a “glimmie,” and whenever he smoked it hard spasms of coughing racked his body.

“Well,” said Tim, “I suppose we’ll see Bobby around again.”

Bobby came to Troop headquarters that night jingling a pocketful of coins. He counted his wealth with a bold swagger. There were half-dollars, quarters, dimes and nickels in the collection. He wanted everybody to take envious notice of the money, and 23 in his absorption he did not hear Don enter the building.

“It’s a mistake to carry that much money around,” Don said quietly over his shoulder.

He started, and dropped a piece of silver, and put the rest away quickly. He became ill at ease; and as soon as Don walked away from the other scouts he followed.

“That is money for next summer’s camp,” he stammered. “I earned it in the alleys.”

There was something of the old Bobby in this shame-faced confession. Don’s lips broke into a ready smile. “Did you get enough?” he asked.

“I got almost five dollars.”

Don whistled. “That much pay for ten ' days?”

“It isn’t all pay,” said Bobby. “The tips — ” His face went scarlet. “It’s different than taking a tip for a good turn,” he said quickly. “A man will roll his games and throw you a dime. Every pin boy gets those tips. Joe and Pete Rivers sometimes clean up as much — ” Bobby bit his lips. “I’ve got enough for one week of camping anyway,” he said lamely, and walked toward the door.

Don shook his head. “Throw a dime” and “clean up.” How much other than tough phrases, he wondered, was Bobby borrowing from the Rivers twins.

Next morning, as Don came from the house, Andy Ford was waiting for him at the gate with a newspaper. There was a story on the front page that America would have to feed war torn Europe until the next harvest.

“The next harvest means the late summer of 1919,” said Andy. “Last summer we fed our Allies; now we must feed the world, almost. I guess they still need us.”

Don nodded soberly. The war was over, but the call for service still sounded — for his father, for the scouts, for everybody.

Before long he began to hear of a United

States Boys’ Working Reserve. This reserve was to take boys from sixteen to eighteen years, high school boys in the main, and drill them for farm work during vacation. For him, the reserve was out of the question — he was needed at home. For the Troop it was out of the question, too, for almost all the Scouts were fourteen years or younger. But — He paused halfway across a roadway, forgetful of everything else but the thought that had come to him. Presently he roused himself and walked directly to Troop headquarters.

Tim Lally was there, putting a fresh coat of varnish on the Wolf patrol locker. There was a paint stain on one cheek, and a smudge across his nose.

“You can bet I’ll never try for a merit badge for painting,” he grumbled.

“Will you round up some of the fellows for a meeting to-night at my house?” Don asked. “Alex Davidson, and Andy, and Wally Woods?”

2 6

“Sure,” said Tim. “We’ll be there.”

They came 'with wonder written on their faces. Don told them about the reserve, and the fine work it intended to do for the farmers of the nation.

“I’ve been wondering,” he said, “if the scouts couldn’t take a hand right here at home.”

Instantly they were on the edges of their chairs. “How?” Tim demanded.

“By helping the farmers around us. They raise garden truck. That’s what we grow in our own gardens. Why can’t we help them?”

“You mean,” Andy asked, “to let the farmers know we’re ready to help and have them send for us as they need us?”

Don nodded.

Wally’s face clouded. “We’ll have to live away from home while we’re helping.”

“We lived away from home when we camped two years ago.”

Tim’s eyes began to snap. “Look here, if 27 we go to a farmer to help him out why can’t we take our tents with us?”

“Make a camping trip of it?” Andy asked.

“Sure; why not?”

It dawned on the others what this might mean — its possibilities for fun and frolic hand in hand with work. Andy began to grin. Wally’s face cleared.

“Watch the Troop go for this,” he said.

But when Don brought up the subject at Friday night’s meeting, some of the scouts looked glum.

“I thought we were going camping next summer,” said Bobby Brown.

“We may be able to, Bobby.”

“But if we’re going to chase around with farmers — ”

“It’s a question of standing by,” said Don. “We must send twenty million tons of food to Europe.” He wished there was some way he could make the Troop realize how much twenty million tons were.

“I’m for standing by,” said Tim.

“Why can’t we just work our own gardens as we did last year?” another Scout asked.

“Because we must raise more food than we raised last year,” Don answered.

The scout who had asked the question made a face. Wasn’t the war over? Weren’t scouts expected to have any fun any more?

“I’ve been saving up for a camping trip,” Bobby grumbled.

“I bet Hoover would like to take you out in the woods and lose you,” Tim said in disgust.

Don realized that instead of deciding what to do, the Troop was beginning to wrangle. Mr. Wall would have stopped the quarreling at once, but he was afraid to ask for a vote. He was not at all sure what the result would be.

“Suppose we let this go over for a week,” he said. “Everybody can think it over.”

Bobby assented eagerly. As soon as the 29 meeting was over he hurried from headquarters.

“Gone down to tell it to Pete and Joe,” Tim said gloomily. “They surely have him charmed.”

“Why didn’t you tell the Troop we’d live in tents?” Andy asked curiously.

“We’re a fine lot of scouts if we have to be bribed to do what America wants us to do,” said Don. To-night he was bitterly discouraged. What a difference a scoutmaster made!

During the week Tim and Andy brought him reports of how gossip in the Troop was running. Bobby, apparently, had become the leader of a no-farming faction. He lounged outside the Chester Alleys, and he challenged every scout who happened along. Joe Rivers, sucking on his “glimmie,” seemed to enjoy these interviews. “By Harry,” he said on one occasion, “this country ain’t all yourn. It won’t go busted if you scout fellows has 30 some fun.” It became apparent, as Friday approached, that Bobby’s faction had become formidable.

Thursday afternoon Tim and Andy came over to Don’s house and found him working on a broken chair in the basement carpenter shop.

“If Bobby hadn’t harped on camping we’d have been all right,” Tim grumbled.

“If somebody could make Bobby see this in the right light,” said Andy, “the trouble would be over in five minutes. Bobby’s all right at heart.”

Don wondered how he was going to make Bobby “see it.” It would do no good to try to force him. What a scout did not want to do with a good will he might just as well not do at all.

“There’s no knowing what may turn up before to-morrow,” said Andy. “Come on, Tim. Maybe Don will think up something if wc leave him alone.”

Don watched them go. The postman came in through the gate, but he did not go to meet him. The whistle blew at the front door; he heard somebody go along the hall. And then Barbara cried to him in excitement:

“Don! Don! Here’s a letter from Mr. Wall.”

He bounded up the stairs. The telegram from the War Department had said “slightly wounded,” but — The first paragraph of the letter sent him dancing and cheering the length of the hall.

“He’s all right. Bullet in the left shoulder; another in the arm. He’s out of danger.”

With Barbara leaning breathlessly over his shoulder he read what followed. When he came to the end he sighed. Two bright spots of color showed in Barbara’s cheeks.

“Don! If they know, if Bobby knew, what Mr. Wall has seen — ”

Don drew a deep breath. There was a 32 chance that if this letter were read at the Troop meeting it might switch sentiment in an instant. “I’ll tell the scouts I have a letter,” he said at last, “and that Mr. Wall is all right. I won’t tell them anything else. I’ll spring this as a surprise.”

He set out to announce that Mr. Wall would sooner or later come back to them. But the good news was already flying through Chester. An excited scout met him.

“Mr. Wall’s getting better,” the boy cried. “Mrs. Wall’s just got a letter. Gee, Don, she grabbed me and kissed me.”

Within an hour it seemed that every scout had heard. There was singing in the Troop building for the first time in weeks. For the moment, the shadow of the next night’s meeting was gone.

Next morning Tim came with disturbing news. Pete Rivers, it appeared, was boasting that he and Joe and Bobby had a secret and that Bobby was going to show some people.

Don had intended to keep Mr. Wall’s letter from even his closest friends; but now, of a sudden, he shoved it into Tim’s hands. For a while, after reading, the other boy was silent.

“I wouldn’t call the roll by patrols,” he said; “I’d call it alphabetically. Bobby’s name will come first. Make him vote first. Make him stand right up and declare himself in advance of everybody else — after he hears that letter.”

Don folded the letter and put it away. “Tim,” he said, “you ought to be a politician.”

Tim grinned. “Go on; the Irish are all politicians.”

That night the Troop gathered early. Bobby stayed with his supporters until it was time to join his patrol. There were fresh rumors now — rumors to the effect that Pete had said that when the scouts camped next summer he and his brother wouldn’t be far 34 away. From the road outside came a bird call that rose, fell, and rose again. At least six scouts knew that only Pete Rivers could sound a call like that.