ward the fort, and from where he stood he could just catch a glimpse of Jeff Davis’s tree on the parade ground, a great, shady bulk, dignified in its size and its age. He caught himself humming a snatch of the training camp song:
“Send along another batch a’ Coast Artiller-ee⸺”
•••••••
Roarious! Roarious!
We’ll make the Coast Artill’ry glorious;
Fill ’er up with shell
An’ we’ll give the beggars hell
As we drive the ⸺ ⸺ out of France!
His blood quickened as he stepped on the familiar dock.
“To the Chamberlin, Eddie,” he directed, as Eddie grasped their two suitcases. “Squads right! Column left! March!”
Eddie grinned and executed the movements, pretending that Val was an officer. It pleased him to remember, however, that Val was no more an officer than he himself was—before finishing his course Val had been ordered to France as part of a replacement battalion in the trench mortar corps. It was there he met Eddie—one night in a shell hole, where they had cemented their friendship in cold, soggy “canned willie” and rather muddy water—water that was suitable for drinking, perhaps, but certainly not for bathing.
There was a crowd registering at the desk, and Val and Eddie held back until it thinned out a bit. When Val registered he looked the page of the register over carefully. Four names above his was the name of Ignace Teck—room three hundred and thirty. Val and Eddie were assigned rooms three fifty-five and six, on the same floor, which suited Val well.
