The Khaki Boys at Camp Sterling; Or, Training for the Big Fight in France

“I suppose it’s hard for ordinary enlisted men in the aviation corps to get a chance to fly,” mused Roger. “Our training must be easy beside what they have to go through.”

“Most of ’em haven’t the foundation to start with,” rejoined Bob. “It takes a trained mind to get away with all a man has to learn before he ever starts to fly. Then again, with all he knows he may never develop into a flyer. It may not be in him to make good. It’s a great game, but I’ll bet it carries a lot of disappointed sore-heads along with it. I’d never want to tackle it. I’d sure be one of ’em.”

The tardy arrival of Ignace who had been on detail in the mess kitchen of late, turned the conversation back to the subject of the Twinkle Twins themselves. The Pole was duly regaled with an account of the afternoon’s adventure, to which he listened in rapt silence. Much to the surprise of his bunkies, he earnestly begged his Brothers not to introduce him to the illustrious twins on the morrow. “You no bring here,” he entreated.

“What’s the matter with you, Iggy? They won’t bite you.” Jimmy finally grew a trifle impatient. “We’re going to bring ’em up here on purpose to meet you, ’cause you can’t go to the ‘Y’ with us to meet them. Do you get me? That goes.”

“So-o-o!” Ignace looked desperate but made no further objection. In fact he said little more that evening. Apparently losing all interest in his bunkies’ new acquaintances, he retired to his cot and occupied himself in a laborious study of Roger’s manual, which he had at last begun to “un’erstan’.”

When, at precisely two o’clock on Sunday afternoon the twin guests arrived and were presently conducted in triumph to Company E’s barrack by their boyish hosts, Ignace was missing from the squad room. Nor did he put in an appearance until just before time for the evening mess, at least half an hour after his bunkies had bade their visitors a reluctant farewell and watched them drive off down the company street in their racer.

“You’re a nice one!” greeted Jimmy in pretended disgust. “Where have you been keeping yourself? Maybe you were ashamed to be seen with us! What do you mean by quitting us cold? You’re a fine sort of Brother, you are.”

Jimmy’s energetic salutation brought a dull flush to the Pole’s cheeks. His china-blue eyes showed real distress. He gulped, sighed, shifted from one foot to the other, then faltered out: “Never I shame to go by you an’ Bob an’ Roger. So have I the respet to my Brothar. Such gran’ fren’ see me, think I no much, think mebbe you no much, too. You tell you have ’nother Brothar, all right, they don’t see. They see – ” Ignace made a gesture expressive of his lowly opinion of himself.

“Well of all the modest violets, you’re the flower of the bunch!” was Bob’s satirical tribute.

“You’ve a nice opinion of us, Iggy.” Roger’s twitching lips belied his reproach.

“Let’s take him over to the shower bath and duck him,” proposed Jimmy. “Of all the bosh I ever listened to that’s the boshiest. Wake up, Iggy! You’re not at a social tea. You’re in the Army now, and in bad, too, just on my account. If you ever again do another vanishing act when we’re going to have company, you’ll be more than in bad with the Army; you’ll be in bad with us. You’ll be going around hunting three lost Brothers, who quit you because you couldn’t tell the difference between a regular fellow and a snob!”

CHAPTER XVI

UNKNOWN, UNGUESSED

At noon on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, Roger, Jimmy and Bob said a regretful good-bye to Ignace and sallied forth to the station bound for a four days’ furlough with the Blaises. Due to Jimmy’s thoughtfulness, Ignace had that very morning received a Thanksgiving box of good things to eat from Mrs. Blaise that had astonished him almost to tears. He had never before come into such a windfall, and his round blue eyes grew rounder when after the departure of his bunkies he explored the contents of this holiday treat.

His first thought was of someone with whom he might share it. Franz Schnitzel appealed to him as most worthy of choice. Like himself, Schnitzel never received either money or gifts from home.

Thanksgiving Day ended Ignace’s detail in the mess kitchen. The day following ended his period of punishment. On Saturday afternoon he and Schnitzel obtained passes and went into Tremont for a quiet but happy little celebration of their own. All in all, Ignace was not so lonely as he had expected to be. Though he sorely missed his Brothers, he was unselfishly glad of the good time they were having at Jimmy’s home. Evidence of that reached him on Saturday afternoon in the shape of post cards from all three, which he lugged happily about in a coat pocket for a week after their return.

Detail of Schnitzel to kitchen duty on Sunday morning robbed Ignace of his company at breakfast. During the absence of his bunkies, Ignace and the German-American had daily sat side by side at mess, saying little but nevertheless well content in each other’s society. They were becoming very good friends.

Sunday noon landed Bob, Jimmy and Roger in barracks with a rush. They pounced upon Ignace with good-humored roughness and plied him with endless questions about himself and his doings during their absence.

“Now for the love of Mike, Iggy, do behave like a little tin soldier until Christmas,” admonished Bob. “Jimmy’s folks want us with them for the Christmas furlough. That means you. If you happen to see anybody trying to slay us all in a bunch, let ’em try, but you keep out of the slaying. You’ve done your stretch. Be satisfied. Let somebody else get it in the neck for a change.”

It was not until in the evening when the four Khaki Boys were leaving the “Y,” where they had spent an hour after mess, that Jimmy bethought himself to ask Iggy, “Did Schnitzel have any trouble with Bixton while we were gone? I heard before we left that Bixton was wild because he had to stay in camp. I thought, maybe, he’d try to take it out on Schnitz.”

“No. He no do nothin’, no say nothin’. He have the big box to eat he get by home. Himself eat, no give nothin’. All time smoke an’ look mad. Schnitzel no care. He stay by me. We are the frens.”

“‘Himself eat,’” mimicked Jimmy. “I wish he would, and not leave a scrap!”

“You should worry. He’s safe for a while. He won’t risk any more run-ins with the K. O. for fear of getting canned up for Christmas. Bottled Bixton doesn’t look good to him just now.” Bob grinned at his own fanciful labeling of the obstreperous Bixton.

“I guess he’s about through as a trouble bird,” observed Jimmy. “That detail in the mess kitchen must have cured him. I’ll bet he hated to go to it.”

“Never I like him that kitchen,” sighed Ignace. “Schnitzel no mind. He ver’ good solder. Say – say – What him say?” Wrestling with memory, Ignace ended with a triumphant, “Him say, ‘All the duty him a line’!”

“Oh, wow!” shouted Bob gleefully, slapping Iggy on the back. “That’s a funny one!”

“You have the grow stron’er,” placidly remarked the misquoter, unruffled by Bob’s levity.

Taps that night left the Khaki Boys ready for a quick hike into dreamland. The next day dawned like any one day at Camp Sterling, with a concerted rush on the part of several thousand Sammies to get into their uniforms and line up for roll call.

“With all due credit to our hard-plugging cooks, I’m not what you might call a hearty eater,” grumbled Bob to Roger, as the Khaki Boys of Company E stood before the counter in the mess hall at noon. “Mrs. Blaise’s cook beats Mrs. Army’s hash maidens all hollow.”

“It is a come down.” Roger smiled at Bob’s nonsense. “I’m not very hungry, either. I’ve lost my appetite, I guess, from eating so much sweet stuff. No more of it for me to-day or to-morrow either.”

“Nor me.” Having received his portion in his mess kit, Bob eyed it with disfavor. “Beans,” he commented. “I’ll try ’em. This pale, simple, gooey rice pudding – No, thank you. Bobby has chok’lit candy and nice cake in his suit-case. Go ’way, nasty old pudding!”

His scornful repudiation of the unoffending rice pudding was not the only one. Neither Jimmy nor Roger were tempted to the point of trying it. Ignace swallowed one small spoonful and with a disdainful, “No taste nothin,” ate no more of it. The glories of his wonderful Thanksgiving treat were still hovering over him, hence his will to criticize everyday fare.

Shortly after one o’clock Assembly something happened to the platoon of Company E men of which the four Khaki Boys were a part. In the midst of drill a soldier dropped his rifle, clapped both hands over his stomach with a deep groan, and, doubling up like a jack-knife, pitched forward to the ground, a writhing heap. Hardly had the lieutenant commanding the platoon reached him when a second, then a third man collapsed in precisely the same fashion.

In the next few moments the lieutenant fully demonstrated his prompt ability to act in the face of an emergency. Taking instant command of the situation, he rapped out his orders with crispness and dispatch. Before aid had arrived, however, from the nearby base hospital, at least a dozen more men were showing signs of the strange malady. These last, Ignace among them, were still able to keep on their feet. Only the first three victims were entirely out of commission.

The arrival of an ambulance, manned by a detail of men attached to the base hospital, saw the work of caring for the sufferers speedily under way. Already ordered to “Fall Out,” the still unaffected men of the platoon were dismissed with the order “To Barracks.” They were also instructed to report at the hospital at the slightest sign of indisposition.

During the excitement an ominous whisper had winged its way among the dismayed participants in the tragic scene which presently grew to an audible murmur of “Poison!” At that dread word, unspoken questions leaped into the strained eyes of the gray-faced men who had thus far felt no indications of that baleful seizure. In the same instant it had come home to each that in some stealthy fashion one of the myriad secret enemies of Uncle Sam had found his opportunity to strike. In the midst of apparent safety had lurked an unknown, unguessed foe.

CHAPTER XVII

THE WORK OF A FIEND

Returned to barracks three more men of Platoon 4, Company E, were added to the list of sufferers from that sinister seizure. As a result those still unvisited by it were promptly ordered to report at the regimental hospital for treatment. The fact that a number of Company E men at drill in other platoons had also collapsed had increased the gravity of the affair to a point that required instant action on the part of the medical department. The symptoms of the peculiar malady were such as to indicate poisoning. They called for speedy investigation and the administering of a precautionary antidote to such of the men as had thus far showed no signs of sickening.

It was the first real catastrophe that had ever struck Camp Sterling and the news of it spread like wildfire throughout the camp. To one and all it seemed almost incredible that a “poison plot” had reached successful culmination in Company E mess kitchen. Undoubtedly it had centered there. None other than men from Company E’s barracks had felt any ill effects from their noon meal. Yet who could guess as to how far such a calamity might extend?

Released from drill for the balance of the day, the half hour between Retreat and mess that evening marked the ending of a troubled afternoon in Company E barracks. An air of deep gloom hung over the squad room in which the four Khaki Boys bunked.

Bob, Jimmy and Roger were in especially low spirits. Ranged in a dejected row on Roger’s cot they were a most unhappy trio.

“It’s awful,” groaned Jimmy. “Poor old Iggy. He looked ready to croak when they took him to the hospital. What do you suppose it was that poisoned ’em? We ate the same stuff they did and we’re all right – yet.”

“Don’t you know yet what poisoned ’em?” Bent forward, chin in hand, Bob straightened up with a jerk. “I’ll tell you. It was the rice pudding. We didn’t touch it, but poor old Iggy did.”

“By George, that’s so! I must be thick not to have doped out that much for myself. I’d forgotten about Iggy’s starting to eat it.”

“So had I.” Roger looked disgusted at his own forgetfulness. “That’s why a lot of men didn’t get sick. They passed up the pudding, too, because Thanksgiving sweet stuff made ’em finicky.”

“I caught it the minute that rain-maker over at the hospital asked me what I ate for dinner,” declared Bob. “He gave me a queer look when I told him ‘no pudding’ and made a note of it. I was going to mention it to you, then I thought I’d wait and let you figure it out.”

“Then they must know it already at headquarters,” asserted Jimmy.

“Sure they know it,” nodded Bob. “Whatever was left of that rice pudding is under chemical analysis by this time. They have to act quickly in a case like this.”

“Iggy may pull through all right.” Jimmy brightened. “He only ate one spoonful of the stuff. I was watching him. He tried it and said: ‘No taste nothin’.’ Then he didn’t touch it again. I know, ’cause right afterward we all beat it out of the mess hall. What about Simpson, though? I can see him yet, and hear him groan.”

Simpson had been the first man to collapse.

“Poor fellow.” Roger’s tones vibrated with intense sympathy. “He’s a fine man and a splendid soldier. I’ve been expecting every day to see him jump to corporal. Now – ” He paused, reluctant to voice his doubt of Simpson’s recovery.

“It might turn out not to be poison, you know,” said Bob reflectively. “Somebody may have dosed the pudding with something that would make the men deathly sick and yet not finish ’em. Only hope that’s the case. This will raise some ructions here in camp, believe me. Every one of those guys in the mess kitchen’ll be held for a third degree. No one’s supposed to have anything to do with the grub but them. Yet they might all be as innocent as babies. Some fiend may have doctored the rice or the milk before it ever struck camp.” Wise in the ways of the newspaper world, Bob was already full of plausible theories concerning the dreadful affair.

“Suppose it was poison, nobody could accuse a man on kitchen detail unless pretty good proof of it came up against him,” stoutly asserted Roger.

“They’ll grill the whole bunch to a standstill. If any one of ’em shows the least sign of guilt – Bing! Into the jug he goes for trial by a court martial. If he’s found guilty, Bang! Porous!”

“I don’t believe a man in this camp would do such a horrible thing!” Jimmy’s voice rang with intense loyalty.

“We hope not,” gravely rejoined Bob. “You can never tell, though. This whole country’s honey-combed with spies and myrmidons of the Central Powers. The Secret Service has run down more of ’em than anyone can guess at. I know of a few things from being on the Chronicle. Sometimes I’ve thought we’re all asleep over here. But we’re waking up. Too bad it took us so long to do it.”

“Gee, but I’m glad Iggy went off kitchen duty before this happened! Missed it by only two days!”

“Just in time to get doped, instead of getting hauled up for doping,” retorted Bob. “It’s about as bad one way as the other.”

“Oh, you!” Jimmy grew indignant. “You know I didn’t mean it that way. Just the same, I’d rather he’d be in hospital than under a cloud because some others are there. I’d hate to see a friend of mine in bad for – ”

“A friend of ours is in bad!” Bob fairly bounced to his feet. “Schnitz is on kitchen detail! Great Jehosephat! And he’s a German-American, too!”

Into three pairs of eyes leaped a consternation born of this belated reflection. It looked as though Schnitz was in for it.

“Tough luck,” emphasized Jimmy, equally concerned over Schnitzel’s predicament. “Too bad it wasn’t Bixton instead.” Jimmy cast an unfriendly glance across the squad room to where Bixton, as usual, lounged on his cot. He also had escaped disaster.

“Oh, come now.” Roger could not refrain from smiling. “You don’t mean that, Blazes. It’s wrong to wish trouble on any man, no matter what he may be. I don’t believe even Schnitzel would wish that on Bixton, and he’s had to take a lot from that sneak. Schnitz is too – ”

“By the way, where is Schnitz?” Jimmy was staring darkly at Schnitzel’s empty cot. “Maybe he’s in hospital, too. He wasn’t at drill, so we don’t know – ”

“Whether he’s in hospital or in arrest,” finished Bob significantly, “I haven’t seen a man on kitchen detail since noon. You can draw your own conclusions. Right after mess to-night I’m going out news-gathering. I’ll bet I find out something, too. I know where I can get some information.”

“Mess!” grimaced Jimmy. “I hate to think of it. I’m not hungry enough to risk getting mine to-night.”

“We all feel the same,” agreed Bob. “They say lightning never strikes twice in the same place, though. I won’t be a quitter. I’ll take a chance. Probably we’ll get something solid to eat to-night that it would be hard to doctor. You can look for some new faces in the mess kitchen. Take my word for it.”

Bob’s prediction was verified almost to the letter. Supper that night consisted of bread, boiled potatoes and beefsteak, served by a new detail of kitchen men. Not one of the old detail was on duty, which went to prove that they were either ill or had been held on suspicion.

The three Khaki Boys never forgot that particular meal. Each felt that every mouthful of food he ate might contain a fatal dose of poison. Iggy’s absence also greatly added to their depression. All hoped for the best, yet feared the worst. The same heavy oppression clutched their comrades, who alike had bunkies of their own to worry over.

Bob returned to barracks with Roger and Jimmy, only to sally forth again on his quest for news. Jimmy was anxious to go with him, but for once Bob did not desire company. “Bobby’s got to go it by himself,” he objected. “You’re a lovely young corporal, Blazes, but you don’t fit into my plan. ‘He travels fastest who travels alone,’ you know. Any other time I’d be delighted, but, to quote our dear, I won’t say departed, Iggy, ‘no now.’”

Tattoo had sounded before Bob reappeared, his black eyes glittering with suppressed excitement. “I’ve had a busy evening,” he announced, as Jimmy and Roger began hurling eager questions at him. “Pile onto my cot and I’ll tell you what I know.”

“Fire away,” ordered Jimmy impatiently as the three gathered together, eager to hear what Bob had discovered.

“First of all, Iggy’s better.” Bob beamed, as he told this important news. “He wasn’t nearly so sick as the rest. He may be back here to-morrow night.”

“Hooray!” rejoiced Jimmy, though in a very moderate tone.

“That’s fine!” Roger’s sober features grew radiant.

“Simpson’s gone west.” The light faded from Bob’s face.

“When – did – he – ” Jimmy could not bring himself to say the dread word.

“Soon after they took him to hospital.” Bob was silent for a moment. “He – he – suffered terribly. One of those two that dropped right afterward is – is – gone. Brady, that slim, curly-headed fellow, that was always laughing. The other may pull through. All the rest will, I guess. They’re pretty sure it was the pudding. Simpson asked for a second portion of the stuff. I’d like to get my hands on the fiend that poisoned it. I’d choke the life out of him!”

“They’re taking it hard at headquarters,” Bob continued. “The K. O.’s wild about it. Says he’ll never rest till he gets the one who did it. That’s what I heard. I didn’t have a personal interview with him.” This last with grim humor. “They gathered in the k. m.’s before they’d finished their work. Don’t know what’s been done to ’em, so far. Couldn’t get a line on that. Don’t know whether the story broke in time for an evening extra or not. I couldn’t get one. The morning papers will be full of it. There’ll be a bunch of reporters on the scene to-morrow. It’s hinted that arsenic was used. Nobody’ll know that, though, until the pudding’s been analyzed and post mortem held on – on – ” Bob drew a sharp, whistling breath. “A dog’s death for two brave fellows to die,” he went on with intense bitterness.

“Yet they died in their country’s service,” reminded Roger softly. “They did their level best for Uncle Sam while they lasted. Brady and Simpson; splendid boys and good soldiers.” Unconsciously, Roger had voiced the finest eulogy that a man could desire to have spoken of him.

“Yes, we mustn’t forget that,” assented Bob sadly. “This has been a horrible day. I wish I could wipe it off my slate. But I can’t. And then there’s Schnitz to think of. Anything out of the ordinary happen while I was gone?” he asked with sudden irrelevance.

“Not a thing. Why?” Jimmy detected anxiety in the question.

“I thought maybe there’d be a guard detail sent to go through the kitchen men’s stuff. It’s too early for that, I guess. You don’t suppose Schnitz would have anything among his traps that might look bad for him, do you?”

“What could he have?” wondered Roger. “We know he couldn’t have any poison. What else could there be?”

“Nothing.” Bob hesitated. “It’s only on account of his nationality. You know how Bixton’s talked about him. You know, too, why our fellows were poisoned. He’s the only G. A. in this barrack. He was on kitchen duty. Now suppose he had some trifle among his belongings that was perfectly all right in itself, but looked fishy to the search party? It’s not likely to be so, but it might be.”

CHAPTER XVIII

THE CLUE

What transpired the next day seemed to the Khaki Boys more in the nature of a wild nightmare than stark reality. As Bob had foreseen, morning brought a flock of newspaper men from not too far distant cities to the scene of the disaster.

Excitement, however, reached fever heat when the latest editions of the evening papers flaunted black scareheads such as, “Soldier Suspected of Poisoning His Comrades.” “Incriminating Evidence Found Among Soldier’s Belongings.” “Franz Schnitzel, a German-American, Accused as Poisoner,” and similar glaring headlines.

That same morning a guard detail had entered Company E’s barracks with instructions to search the belongings of such of the kitchen men detained on suspicion who were housed in those barracks. Nothing of importance had been unearthed except in the suitcase of Schnitzel. What had been found there was deemed sufficiently serious in character to warrant holding him on a charge of murder, to await trial by a court martial. Not only had a medium-sized bottle of powdered glass been taken from the suitcase, but also a typed sheet of paper, listing various poisons, together with annotations as to the effect, length of time required to act, and the more or less deadly qualities of each.

“I’ll never believe it of Schnitz. Never!” exclaimed Jimmy Blaise passionately. Tucked into a corner of the “Y” writing room, with Roger and Bob, the three had just finished reading the account of the affair, as set forth in the evening papers. “Schnitz isn’t guilty any more than I am.”

“Schnitz isn’t guilty, of course.” Bob gave a contemptuous snort. “In the first place, I don’t believe it was powdered glass that went into that pudding. I’ll bet the findings of the autopsy and chemical analysis will prove that it was something else.”

“Then he’ll be cleared of the charge, won’t he?” eagerly asked Jimmy.

“Cleared nothing,” was the gloomy retort. “He’ll be third degreed to a frazzle to make him confess that he used the poison that did the killing. That list of poisons and the bottle of powdered glass are too strong evidence against him to be overlooked. He’s been caught with the goods, you might say. I say he’s been caught in a trap laid by an enemy.”

“You don’t mean you think that – ” Jimmy paused.

“I do mean just that. But before I say more, let me ask you something. Was Bixton in the squad room all last evening while I was out?”

“I don’t remember.” Jimmy frowned reflectively. “Let me think. I saw him sitting on his cot around seven o’clock. After that – ”

“He did go out,” interrupted Roger. “I saw him go. It was about half-past seven, I guess. He came back in a great hurry, too, about ten minutes before Taps sounded. I was just turning in. You fellows were both in bed. I was thinking about poor Schnitz when I saw Bixton and Eldridge hustle in.”