XV
Hamilton was lying leisurely on his bed, smoking a cigarette and reading a letter from Margaret, when McCall burst into the room.
“Got my order! Got my order!” he shouted, waving a slip of paper. “Hooray! Kaloo! Kalay! Come on, Hamilton, help me pack.”
“Gee, great stuff!” said Hamilton, jumping up. “When did it come?”
“Just now! Hooray! I haven’t packed a thing. I’m going to take my physical exam at eleven and catch the noon train, if I can. It’s half-past nine now.”
“Have you signed your statement that you’re free from indebtedness?”
“Almost forgot. But I can do it and make the train, anyway. Come on, old top, give me a lift!”
Together they hurried out of the room and down the row of wooden barracks. McCall was talking excitedly.
“No more of these damned barracks, all looking alike,” he said. “That’s the worst thing about the camp. Every blamed building looks like every other building. If they’d only make one a little longer than the other. Or even get the lines crooked. Or paint ’em.”
In McCall’s room they found two privates folding an iron cot.
“That’s right, boys. Get all this junk out and sweep the floor when you get through. Here’s a couple of uniforms I won’t need any more. Want ’em? Fine! And here’s a pair of putts. I’ll see you in the office again before I go.”
The soldiers saluted with a relaxed stiffness and broad grins on their faces, turned on their heels and walked out.
“Why did you want to give away your uniforms and putts?” asked Hamilton. “You can use ’em for riding or camping, you know.”
“Riding or camping? Here, hand me those shavingthings off that shelf. When do you think I’ll have a chance to go riding? If they ever send me on an assignment where I’ll needputts—such as covering anotherwar—I’ll buy a pair. But, of course, there won’t be any more wars. Let’s see, where’ll I put my socks?”
Hamilton was removing articles from a wooden shelf that extended over the foot of thebed—a few photographs, books, stationery, brush, comb, a soap box, a tobacco pouch, a shoe brush and some face towels. As he picked up one of the volumes, a snapshot, which had been kept between the leaves, fluttered down upon the floor and Hamilton stooped to recover it. It was Dorothy Meadows, standing at the entrance to the hospital inParis—Dorothy in her nurse’s cloak and bonnet, smiling at him. McCall looked up from his packing.
“Whatis that?” he asked. “Oh, one of my snapshots.”
“Where’d you get this?” asked Hamilton, his face red from bending.
“In Paris. Took it with her camera. You know she’s been an angel of mercy to us, Hamilton.”
Hamilton’s mind went back to the New York cabaret, where McCall had sat reciting poetry with shining eyes, and an emotion strangely like that of jealousy seized him. He thought of their walk in Luxembourg gardens. Of course it could not be jealousy. Still the feeling persisted and he hardly heard what McCall was saying. If he had not been in love with Margaret, this feeling would be understandable. As it was, it was fantastic. Perhaps McCall had not written the poem to Dorothy.
“Got to get transportation,” said McCall, standing up, after the last strap had been tightened and the last lock turned. “I’ll call up the supply department. Come on!”
They rushed out to the Y. M. C. A., where the nearest telephone was, and McCall disappeared into the booth. He reappeared a few minutes later.
“Sending for it right away. Let’s go back.”
A few minutes later a truck appeared and McCall’s locker trunks and bedding roll were being loaded into it. It seemedvery strange. For almost two years they had been together. In the same company at Plattsburg, where they had gotten their commissions together; in the same company at Camp Eustis, where they had drilled rookies; in the same company in France, until casualties had placed each in charge of his own company. They had received their promotions to first lieutenancies and to captaincies on the same day. They had studied together and fought together. Side by side they had stood in muddy trenches. They had tasted the same dangers and hardships, the same hopes and anxieties, the same enthusiasms and pleasures. Now they were to be separated.
McCall was going back to Chicago. In a few days Hamilton was going back toCorinth—and then what would become of their friendship? Parting would sever something from Hamilton’s life. Yes, life was that, a meeting and a parting. One made friends, built up a community of interests, and then the friend moved away or died or grew up into a different being. The next time they met, Hamilton might be engrossed in somethingelse—possibly the details of the Hamilton enterprises and, as conceivably, McCall would be engrossed in his work.
Hamilton had met old schoolmates likethat—boys with whom he played football at prep school, boys with whom he had gone on larks, even members of the same club at Harvard. For a few minutes they were always glad to see each other. They recalled old memories. They asked about old friends, almost forgotten, whom neither had seen again. Then they suddenly discovered that they were both bored. Each had his own interests, had become a strange being. It was difficult to pick up old friendships where one had left off.
McCall was chattering on happily:
“There’s a hundred things to do to get away from camp. Coming down with me to the Q. M.’s? I’ll tell you; you be in your room and as soon as I get through I’ll drop in again.”
McCall was swinging rapidly down the road, stoppingnow and then to shake hands with friends, or to shout “good-bye” excitedly across the road. Hamilton returned to his room. Everything was in order, in case his discharge should come. He could pack within fifteen minutes. He idly went over some reports, ran a brush over his shoes and puttees, and lay down again on his bed. He loosened his coat, took out his letter from Margaret and reread it. Margaret was to sing before the Daughters of the Confederacy and had just been appointed on a committee to welcome the returning soldiers.
Hamilton was dozing away comfortably when McCall burst into the door, a suitcase in either hand.
“Well, so long, Hamilton, I’m going.”
“Just a minute, I’ll go down with you.” Hamilton sprang to his feet.
“Only ten minutes left. All right, your coat’s all right.”
Hamilton took one of the suitcases and together they rushed out of the barracks. They hailed a Q. M. truck, loaded the suitcases onto it, and crowded into the seat next to the driver. At the station stood little knots of soldiers and officers waiting for the train. There was much laughing and talking, buying of newspapers and candy bars at the counters, and a crush at the ticket and baggage offices.
The train was here. Every one made a rush for the door. Last farewells were said, last addresses exchanged. McCall was waving his arms and shaking hands with everyone. There was no time for even a last word. Hamilton wished to saysomething—something about their friendship, something about the saving of his life in France. But it was too late. McCall was being pushed forward to the train. He found a seat next to the window, opened it and shouted: “So long!” The next minute the train started, the cheering and laughing mingled with the noise of the locomotive gaining momentum, the waving arms and grinning faces receded in the distance.
Hamilton wondered when he would go home, looked around and walked back to his barrack alone.