Tom Slade Motorcycle Dispatch Bearer | Page 9

I heard."
This was gratifying if it was true. Tom had not known why he had been sent so far and he had wondered.
Presently a Signal Corps captain came out of Headquarters, spoke briefly with two officers who were near the big wire spool, and then turned toward the bench on which Tom was sitting. His neighbors arose and saluted and he did the same.
"Never been under fire, I suppose?" said the captain, addressing Tom to his great surprise.
"Not before the lines, I haven't. The machine I had before this one was knocked all out of shape by a shell. I was riding from Toul to----"
"All right," interrupted the captain somewhat impatiently. Tom was used to being interrupted in the midst of his sometimes rambling answers. He could never learn the good military rule of being brief and explicit. "How do you feel about going over the top? You don't have to."
"It's just what I was thinking about," said Tom eagerly. "If you'd be willing, I'd like to."
"Of course you'd be under fire. Care to volunteer? Emergency work."
"Often I wished----"
"Care to volunteer?"
"Yes, sir, I do."
"All right; go inside and get some sleep. They'll wake you up in about an hour. Machine in good shape?"
This was nothing less than an insult. "I always keep it in good shape," said Tom. "I got extra----"
"All right. Go in and get some sleep; you haven't got long. The wire boys will take care of you."
He strode away and began to talk hurriedly with another man who showed him some papers and Tom watched him as one in a trance.
"Now you're in for it, kiddo," he heard some one say.
"R. I. P. for yours," volunteered another.
Tom knew well enough what R. I. P. meant. Often in his lonely night rides through the towns close to the fighting he had seen it on row after row of rough, carved wooden crosses.
"There won't be much resting in peace to-night. How about it, Toul sector?"
"I didn't feel very sleepy, anyway," said Tom.
He slept upon one of the makeshift straw bunks on the stone floor of the cellar under the cottage. With the first streak of dawn he arose and went quietly out and sat on a powder keg under a small window, tore several pages out of his pocket blank-book and using his knee for a desk, wrote:
"DEAR MARGARET:
"Maybe you'll be surprised, kind of, to get a letter from me. And maybe you won't like me calling you Margaret. I told Roy to show you my letters, cause I knew he'd be going into Temple Camp office on account of the troop getting ready to go to Camp and I knew he'd see you. I'd like to be going up to camp with them, and I'd kind of like to be back in the office, too. I remember how I used to be scared of you and you said you must be worse than the Germans 'cause I wasn't afraid of them. I hope you're working there yet and I'd like to see Mr. Burton, too.
"I was going to write to Roy but I decided I'd send a letter to you because whenever something is going to happen the fellows write letters home and leave them to be mailed in case they don't get back. So if you get this you'll know I'm killed. Most of them write to girls or their mothers, and as long as I haven't got any mother I thought I'd write to you. Because maybe you'd like to hear I'm killed more than anybody. I mean maybe you'd be more interested.
"I'm going to go over the top with this regiment. I got sent way over to this sector for special service. A fellow told me he heard it was because I got a level head. I can't tell you where I am, but this morning we're going to take a town. I didn't have to go, 'cause I'm a non-com., but I volunteered. I don't know what I'll have to do.
"I ain't exactly scared, but it kind of makes me think about home and all like that. I often wished I'd meet Roscoe Bent over here. Maybe he wrote to you. I bet everybody likes him wherever he is over here. It's funny how I got to thinking about you last night. I'll--there goes the bugle, so I can't write any more. Anyway, you won't get it unless I'm killed. Maybe you won't like my writing, but every fellow writes to a girl the last thing. It seems kind of lonely if you can't write to a girl.
"Your friend,
"TOM SLADE."
CHAPTER SIX
OVER THE TOP
The first haze of dawn was not dispelled when the artillery began to thunder and Tom knew that the big job was on. Stolid as he was and used to the roar