by Sewell Ford
CHAPTER IX
HARTLEY AND THE G. O. G.'S
"Oh, I say, Torchy," calls out Mr. Robert, as I'm reachin' for my hathere the other noon, "you don't happen to be going up near the club onyour way to luncheon, do you?"
"Not today," says I. "I'm lunchin' with the general staff."
"Oh!" says he, grinnin'. "In that case never mind."
And for fear you shouldn't be wise to this little office joke of oursmaybe I'd better explain that who I meant was Hartley Grue, assistantchief of our bond room force.
Just goes to show how hard up we are for comic stuff in the CorrugatedTrust these days when we can squeeze a laugh out of such aserious-minded party as Hartley. But you know how it is. I expect someof them green-eyed clerks on the tall stools started callin' him thatwhen the War Department first turned him loose and he reports back totackle the old job wearin' the custom tailored uniform with the gold baron his shoulders. And I admit the rest of us might have found somethingbetter to do than listen to them Class B-4 patriots who would havehelped save the world for democracy if the war had lasted a couple yearsmore.
Still, that general staff tag for Mr. Grue tickled us a bit. As a matterof fact he did come back--from the Hoboken piers--about as military asthey made 'em. And to hear him talk about the Aisne drive and the St.Mihiel campaign and so on you'd think he must have been right atPershing's elbow durin' the whole muss, instead of at Camp Mills andlater on at the docks on a transport detail. But he gets away with it,even among us who have watched all the details of his martial career.
For the big war gave Hartley his chance, and he grabbed it as eager as apark squirrel nabbin' a peanut. He'd been hangin' on here in the bondroom for five or six years, edgin' up step by step until he got to beassistant chief, but at that he wasn't much more'n an office drudge.Everybody ordered him around, from Old Hickory down to Mr. Piddie. Hewas one of the kind that you naturally would, being sort of meek andspineless. He'd been brought up that way, I understand, for his old manwas a chronic grouch--thirty years at a railroad ticket officewindow--and I expect he lugged his ticket sellin' disposition home withhim.
Anyway, Hartley had that cheap, hang-dog look, like he was alwayslistenin' for somebody to hand him something rough and would bedisappointed if they didn't. And yet he was quick enough to resentanything if he thought it was safe. You'd see him scowlin' over hisbooks and he carried a constant flush under his eyes, as if he'd beenslapped recent across the face, or expected to be. Not what you'd call ahappy disposition, Hartley; nor was he just the type you'd pick out tohandle a bunch of men.
All he had to start with was a couple of years' trainin' as a private inone of the National Guard regiments. I suppose he knew "guide right"from "left oblique" and how to ground arms without mashin' somebody'spet corn. But I don't think anybody suspected he had any wild militaryambitions concealed under that 2x4 dome of his. Yet while most of us wasstill pattin' Wilson on the back for keepin' us out of war Hartley hadalready severed diplomatic relations and was wearin' a flag in hisbuttonhole.
When the first Plattsburg camp was organized Hartley was among the firstto get a month's leave of absence and report. He didn't make it, being alittle shy on the book stuff, besides lacking ten pounds or more for hisheight. But that didn't discourage him. He begun taking correspondencecourses, eating corn meal mush twice a day, and cutting out the smokes.And after a four weeks' whirl at the second officers' training camp hesqueezed through, coming out as a near lieutenant. Old Hickory Ellinsgasped some when Hartley showed up with the bar on his shoulders, but hegave him the husky grip and notified him that his leave was extended forthe duration of the war with half pay.
And the next we heard from Hartley he was located at Camp Mills drillin'recruit companies. Two or three times he dropped in to say he expectedto be sent over, but each time something or other happened to keep himwithin a trolley ride of Broadway. Once he was caught in a mumpsquarantine just as his division got sailing orders, and again hedeveloped some trouble with one of his knees. Finally Hartley threw outthat someone at headquarters was blockin' him from gettin' to the front,and at last he got stuck with this dock detail, which he never got loosefrom until he was turned out for good. Way up to the end, though,Hartley still talked about getting over to help smash the Huns. I guesshe was in earnest about it, too.
Maybe they thought when they had mustered Hartley out that they'dreturned another citizen to civilian life. But they hadn't more'n halffinished the job. Hartley wouldn't have it that way. He'd stored up alot of military enthusiasm that he hadn't been able to work off ondraftees and departin' heroes. In fact, he was just bustin' with it. Youcould see that by the way he walked, even when he wasn't sportin' theold O. D. once more on some excuse or other. He'd come swingin' into thegeneral offices snappy, like he had important messages for the colonel;chin up, his narrow shoulders well back, and eyes front. He'd trainedVincent, the office boy, to give him the zippy salute, and if any of therest of us had humored him he'd had us pullin' the same stuff. But thoseof us that had been in the service was glad enough to give the right armmotion a long vacation.
"Nothing doing, Hartley," I'd say to him. "We've canned the Kaiser,ain't we? Let's forget that shut-eye business."
And how he did hate to part with that uniform. Simply couldn't seem todo it all at once, but had to taper off gradual. First off he was onlygoing to sport it two days a week, but whenever he could invent aspecial occasion, out it came. He even got him a Sam Browne belt, whichwas contrary to orders, and once I caught him gazin' longin' in a showwindow at some overseas service chevrons and wound stripes. Course, hewore the allied colors ribbon, which passes with a lot of folks forforeign decorations; but then, a whole heap of limited service guys haveput that over.
When it came to provin' that it was us Yanks who really cleaned up theHuns and finished the war, Hartley was right there. That was his strongsuit. He carried maps around, all marked up with the positions of ourdifferent divisions, and if he could get you to listen to him longenough he'd make you believe that after we got on the job the French andEnglish merely hung around the back areas with their mouths open andwatched us wind things up.
"You see," he'd explain, "it was our superior discipline and ourwonderful morale that did it. Look at our marines. Just average materialto start with. But what training! Same way with a lot of our infantryregiments. They'd been taught that orders were orders. It had beenhammered into 'em. They knew that when they were told to do a thing itjust had to be done, and that was all there was to it. We didn't waituntil we got over there to win the war. We won it here, on ourcantonment drill grounds. And I rather think, if you'll pardon my sayingso, that I did my share."
"I'm glad you admit it, Hartley," says I. "I was afraid you wouldn't."
His latest bug though was this Veteran Reserve Army scheme of his. Hisidea was that instead of scrappin' this big army organization that ithad cost so much to build up we ought to save it so it would be ready incase another country--Japan maybe--started anything. He thought everyman should keep his uniform and equipment and be put on call. They oughtto keep up their training, too. Might need some revisin' of regimentsand so on, but by having the privates report, say once a week, at thenearest place where officers could meet them, it could be done. Course,some of the officers might be too busy to bother with it. Well, theycould resign. That would give a chance for promotions. And the gaps inthe enlisted ranks could be kept filled from the new classes whichuniversal service would account for.
See Hartley's little plan? He could go on wearin' his shoulder strapsand shiny leggins and maybe in time he'd have a gold or silver poisonivy leaf instead of the bar.
It was the details of this scheme that he'd been tryin' to work off onme for weeks, but I'd kept duckin', until finally I'd agreed to let himspill it across the luncheon table.
"It's got to be a swell feed, though, Hartley," I insists as I joins himout at the express elevator.
"Will the Cafe l'Europe do?" he asks.
"Gee!" says I. "So that's why you 're dolled up in the Sunday uniform,eh? Got the belt on too. All right. But I mean to wade right throughfrom hors-d'oeuvres to parfait. Hope you've cashed in your delayed payvouchers."
I notice, too, that Hartley don't hunt out any secluded nook down in thegrill, but leads the way to a table right in the middle of the big roomon the main floor, where most of the ladies are. And believe me,paradin' through a mob like that is something he don't shrink from atall. Did I mention that Hartley used to be kind of meek actin'? Well,that was before I heard him talk severe to a Greek waiter.
Also I got a new line on the way Hartley looks at the enlisted man. I'dsuggested that a lot of these returned buddies might have had about allthe drill stuff they cared for and that this idea of reportin' once aweek at some armory possibly wouldn't appeal to 'em.
"They'll have to, that's all," says Hartley. "The new service act willprovide for that. Besides, it will do 'em good, keep 'em in line.Anyway, that's what they're for."
"Oh," says I. "Are they? Say, with sentiments like that you must havebeen about as popular with your company, Hartley, as an ex-grand duke ata Bolshevik picnic."
"What I was after," says he, "was discipline, no popularity. It's whatthe average young fellow needs most. As for me, I had it clubbed into mefrom the start. If I didn't mind what I was told at home I got a bat onthe ear. Same way here in the Corrugated, you might say. I've always hadto take orders or get kicked. That's what I passed on to my men. Atleast I tried to."
And as Hartley stiffens up and glares across the table at an imaginaryline of doughboys I could guess that he succeeded.
It was while I was followin' his gaze that I noticed this bunch of fiveyoung heroes at a corner table. Their overseas caps was stacked on a hattree nearby and one of 'em was wearin' some sort of medal. And from thereckless way they were tacklin' big platters of expensive food, such asbroiled live lobster and planked steaks, I judged they'd been musteredout more or less recent.
Just now, though, they seemed a good deal interested in something overour way. First off I didn't know but some of 'em might be old friends ofmine, but pretty soon I decides that it's Hartley they're lookin' at. Isaw 'em nudgin' each other and stretchin' their necks, and they seems toindulge in a lively debate, which ends in a general haw-haw. I callsHartley's attention to the bunch.
"There's a squad of buddies that I'll bet ain't yearnin' to hear someoneyell 'Shun!' at 'em again," I suggests. "Know any of 'em?"
"It is quite possible," says Hartley, glancin' at 'em casual. "They alllook so much alike, you know."
With that he gets back to his Reserve Army scheme and he sure does giveme an earful. We'd got as far as the cheese and demi tasse when Inoticed one of the soldiers--a big, two-fisted husk--wander past us slowand then drift out. A minute or two later Hartley is being paged andthe boy says there's a 'phone call for him.
"For me?" says Hartley, lookin' puzzled. "Oh, very well."
He hadn't more'n left when the other four strolls over, and one of thelot remarks: "I beg your pardon, but does your friend happen to beSecond Lieutenant Grue?"
"That's his name," says I, "only it was no accident he got to be secondlieutenant. That just had to be."
They grins friendly at that. "You've described it," says one.
"He was some swell officer, too, I understand," says I.
"Oh, all of that," says another. "He--he's out of the service now, ishe?"
"Accordin' to the War Department he is," says I, "but if a little planof his goes through he'll be back in the game soon." And I sketches outhasty Hartley's idea of keepin' the returned vets on tap.
"Wouldn't that be perfectly lovely now!" says the buddy with the medal,diggin' his elbow enthusiastic into the ribs of the one nearest him."Wonder if we couldn't persuade him to make it two drill nights a weekinstead of one. Eh, old Cootie Tamer?"
Course, it develops that these noble young gents, before being sent overto buck the Hindenburg line, had all been in one of the companiesHartley had trained so successful. I wouldn't care to state that theywas hep to the fact that if it hadn't been for him they wouldn't haveturned out to be such fine soldiers. But they sure did take a lot ofinterest in discoverin' one of their old officers. That was natural anddid them credit.
Yes, they wanted to know all about Hartley; where he worked; what hedid, and what were his off hours. It was almost touchin' to see howeager they was for all the details. Havin' been abroad so long, andamong foreigners, and in strange places, I expect Hartley looked likehome to 'em.
And then again, you know how they say all them boys who went over havecome back men, serious and full of solemn, lofty thoughts. You could seeit shinin' in their eyes, even if they did let on to be chucklin' attimes. So I gives 'em all the dope I could about their dear old secondlieutenant and asks 'em to stick around a few minutes so they could meethim.
"We'd love to," says the one the others calls Beans. "Yes, indeed, itwould be a great pleasure, but I think we should defer it until thelieutenant can be induced to leave off his uniform. You understand, I'msure. We--we should feel more at ease."
"Maybe that could be fixed up, too," says I.
"If it only could!" says Beans, rollin' his eyes at the bunch. "Butperhaps it would be better as sort of a surprise. Eh? So you needn'tmention us. We--we'll let him know in a day or so."
Well, they kept their word. Couldn't have been more 'n a couple of dayslater when Hartley calls me one side confidential and shows me this noteaskin' him if he wouldn't be kind enough to meet with a few of his oldcomrades in arms and help form a permanent organization that wouldperpetuate the fond ties formed at Camp Mills.
Hartley is beamin' all over his face. "There!" says he. "That's what Icall the true American spirit. And, speaking as a military man, I'veseen no better example of a morale that lasts through. It's thediscipline that does it, too. I suppose they want me to continue astheir commanding officer; to carry on, as it were."
"Listens that way, doesn't it?" says I. "But what do the initials at theend stand for--the G. O. G.'s.?"
"Can't you guess?" says Hartley, almost blushin'. "Grue's OverseasGraduates."
"Well, well!" says I. "Say, that's handin' you something, eh? Lookedlike a fine bunch of young chaps. Some of 'em college hicks, I expect?"
"Oh, yes," says Hartley. "All kinds from plumbers to multi-millionaires.Fact! I had young Ogden Twombley as company secretary at one time. Yes,and I remember docking his leave twelve hours once for being late atassembly. But see what it's done for those boys."
"And think what they did to the Huns," says I. "But where's this jointthey want to meet you at? What's the number again? Why, that's thePlutoria."
"Is it?" says Hartley. "Oh, well, there were a lot of young swells among'em. I must get them interested in my Veteran Reserve plan. I'll have tomake a little speech, I suppose, welcoming them back and all that sortof thing. Perhaps you'd like to come along, Torchy?"
"Sure!" says I. "That is, so long as they don't call on me for anyremarks. How about this at the bottom, though? 'Civilian dress,please'?"
"Oh, they'd feel a little easier, I suppose," says Hartley, "if I wasn'tin uniform. Maybe it would be best, the first time."
So that's how it happened that promptly at 4 p.m. next day we was shownup to this private suite in the Plutoria. Must have been kind of hardfor Hartley to give up his nifty O. D.'s, for he ain't such animpressive young gent in a sack coat. And the braid bound cutaway andstriped pants he's dug out for the occasion makes him look more like afloor walker from the white goods department than ever. But he tries tolook the second lieutenant in spite of it, bracin' his shoulders wellback and swellin' his chest out important.
It seems the G. O. G.'s has been doin' some recruitin' meantime, forthere's a dozen or more grouped about the room, some in citizens'clothes but more still in the soldier togs they wore when they came offthe transport. And to judge by the looks of a table I got a squint atbehind a screen, they'd been doin' a lit
tle preliminary celebratin'.However, they all salutes respectful and Hartley had just started toshoot off his speech, which begins, of course: "Speaking as a militaryman----" when this Beans gent interrupts.
"Pardon me, lieutenant," says he, "but the members of our organizationare quite anxious to know, first of all, if you will accept the highcommand of the Gogs, so called."
"With pleasure," says Hartley. "And as I was about to say----"
"Just a moment," breaks in Beans again. "Fellow Gogs, we have before usa willing candidate for the High Command. What is your pleasure?"
"Initiation!" they whoops in chorus.
"Carried!" says Beans. "Let the right worthy Buddies proceed toadminister the Camp Mills degree."
"Signal!" calls out another cheerful. "Four--seven--eleven! Run theguard!"
Say, I couldn't tell exactly what happened next, for I was hustled intoa corner and those noble young heroes of the Marne and elsewhere, fullof lofty aims and high ambitions and--and other things--Well, theycertainly didn't need any promptin' to carry out the order ofceremonies. Without a word or a whisper they proceeds to grab Hartleywherever the grabbin' was good and then pass him along. By climbin' on achair I could get a glimpse of him now and then as he is sent whirlin'and bumpin' about, like a bottle bobbin' around in rough water. Back andforth he goes, sometimes touchin' the floor and then again being tossedtoward the ceilin'. Two or three of 'em would get him and start rushin'him across the room when another bunch would tear him loose and beginsome maneuvers of their own.
Anyway, runnin' the guard seems to be about as strenuous an act asanybody could go through and come out whole. It lasts until all handsseem to be pretty well out of breath and someone blows a whistle. Then acouple of 'em drags Hartley up in front of Brother Beans and salutes.
"Well, right worthy Buddies," says he, "what have you to reportconcerning the candidate?"
"Sorry, sir," says one, "but we caught him tryin' to run the guard."
"Ah!" says Beans. "Did he get away with it?"
"He did not," says the Buddie. "We suspect he's a dud, too."
"Very serious," says Beans, shakin' his head. "Candidate, what have youto say for yourself?"
To judge by the hectic tint on Hartley's neck and ears he had a wholeheap he wanted to say, but for a minute or so all he can do is breathehard and glare. He's a good deal of a sight, too. The cutaway coat haslost one of its tails; his hair is rumpled up like feathers, and hiscollar has parted its front moorin's. As soon as he gets his windthough, he tries to state what's on his mind.
"You--you young rough-necks!" says he. "I--I'll make you sweat for this.You'll see!"
"Harken, fellow Gogs!" says Beans. "The candidate presumes to addressyour Grand Worthy in terms unbecoming an officer and a gentleman. Iwould suggest that we suspend the ritual until by some means he can bebrought to his better senses. Can anyone think of a way?"
"Sure!" someone sings out. "Let's give him Days Gone By."
The vote seems to be unanimous and the proceedin's open with BrotherBeans waggin' his finger under Hartley's nose. "Kindly recall November22, 1917," says he. "It was Saturday, and my leave ticket read from 11a. m. of that date until 11 p. m. of the 23rd. You knew who was waitingfor me at the Matron's House, too. And just because I'd changed toleather leggins inside the gate you called me back and put me toscrubbing the barracks floor, making me miss my last chance at a matineeand otherwise queering a perfectly good day. Next!"
"My turn!" sings out half a dozen others, but out of the push thatsurges toward Hartley steps a light-haired, neat dressed young gent, whowalks with a slight limp. "I trust you'll remember me, lieutenant," sayshe. "I was Private Nelson, guilty of the awful crime of appearing atinspection with two grease spots on my tunic because you'd kept me onmess sergeant detail for two weeks and the issues of extra uniformshadn't been made. So you gave me double guard duty the day my folks cameall the way down from Buffalo to see me. Real clever of you, wasn't it?"
One by one they reminded Hartley of little things like that, withoutgivin' him a chance to peep, until each one had had his say. But finallyHartley gets an openin'.
"You got just what you needed--discipline," says he. "That's what madesoldiers out of you."
"Oh, did it!" says Brother Beans. "Then perhaps a little of it wouldqualify you for the High Command. Shall we try it, Most WorthyBuddies?"
"Soak it on him, Beans!" is the verdict, shouted enthusiastic from allsides.
"So let it be," says Beans solemn. "And now, candidate, you are about tobe escorted forth where the elusive cigar-butt lurks in the gutter andscraps of paper litter the pavement. As an exponent of this particularbrand of discipline you will see that no small item escapes you. Shouldyou be so remiss, or should you falter in doing your full duty, you willbe returned at once to this room, where retribution waits with heavyhands. Ho, Worthy Buddies! Invest the candidate with the sacred insigniaof the empty gunny sack."
And say, when them Gogs started out to put a thing through they did itsystematic and thorough. Inside of a minute Hartley is armed with an oldbag and is being hustled out to the elevator. As they didn't seem to betaking much notice of me, I tags along, too. They leads Hartley rightout in front of the Plutoria and sets him to cleanin' up the block.
Course, it's a little odd to see a young gent in torn cutaway coat andtousled hair scramblin' around under taxi-cabs and dodgin' cars to pickup cigar-butts and chewin' gum papers. So quite a crowd collects. Someof 'em cheers and some haw-haws. But the overseas vets. don't allowHartley to let up for a second.
"Hey! Don't miss that cigarette stub!" one would call out to him. And assoon as he'd retrieved that another would point out a piece of bananapeelin' out in the middle of the avenue. He got cussed enthusiastic bysome of the taxi drivers who just grazed him, and the traffic copthreatened to run him in until he saw the bunch of soldiers bossin' thejob and then he grins and turns the other way.
I expect I should have been more or less wrathy at seein' a brotherofficer get it as raw as that, but I'm afraid I did more or lessgrinnin' at some of Hartley's antics. It struck me, though, that hemight be kind of embarrassed if I stayed around until they turned himloose. So before he finished I edged out of the crowd and drifted off.
I couldn't help puttin' one thing up to Brother Beans though. "Excuse mefor gettin' curious," says I, "but when I asks Hartley what G. O. G.stands for he made kind of a punk guess. If it ain't any deepsecret----"
"It is," says Brother Beans, "but I think I'll let you in on it. Thename of our noble organization is 'Grue's Overseas Grouches,' and ourhumble object is to rebuke the only taint of Prussianism which we havepersonally encountered in an otherwise perfectly good man's army. Whenwe've done that we intend to disband."
"Huh!" says I, glancin' over to where Hartley is springin' sort of asheepish smile at a buck private who's pattin' him on the back, "I thinkyou can most call it a job now."