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SYNOPSIS CHAPTER I—Edward Thomas Marion Lawton Hargrove, feature editor of the Charlotte (N. C.) News, receives notice from his draft board that he is to be inducted into the army. Before he begins an account ing of his actual experiences in training camp he issues his quota of free advice to prospective in ductee. After his induction Har grove, with his new buddies, leaves for Fort Bragg, where he is to re ceive his basic training. CHAPTER II—Private Hargrove tells of the physical exam, the first few days of army, how he was out fitted with his uniform, and how on the sixth day he received his first KP duty. He is classified as a semi skilled cook. CHAPTER III—Hargrove his conversation with his sergeant who is trying to find out why he spends so much time on KP duty. He also reports on the session the trainees are put through by the ex ercise sergeant. He has trouble learning how to handle his rifle and is given plenty of special attention by the sergeant and corporal. CHAPTER IV—Private Private Hargrove! by Marion Hargrove relates Hargrove relates some of the incidents sur rounding the advancement in rank by some of his friends. Why he fails to so advance is a puzzle to his sergeant, who inquires about it CHAPTER V—Hargrove a review of his is given faults by his ser geant who tells him to snap out of it and start working for his cor poral’s stripes. He also gets a les son in the art of goldbricking. CHAPTER VI—Private goes to visit Hargrove lists a series of army slang defini tions for the enlightenment of the civilian population. He also tells how he and two of his pals spoil a perfectly good date for one Private Zuber. Going home on furlough he a newspaperman friend who dominates their conversation recounting his experiences in the first World War. He also under goes another trying experience inspection. CHAPTER VH—Private at Hargrove continues to relate the incidents sur rounding his camp life and tells about being outfitted for an over coat. A week-end is spent on man euvers on the South Carolina coast. He gets a good case of sunburn. CHAPTER VIII—Hargrove CHAPTER IX—How gets his first taste of army cooking school reports on his daily activi ties there. He tells also about the real meaning of army morale and how it affects new inductees. the evening bull sessions progress and how much the soldiers enjoy them are the sub ject of Private Hargrove’s next re port. He learns he has been re classified to do public relations work on the camp paper. CHAPTER X—The old gang, formed in the first days of training, begins to break up and Hargrove tells about a “going away” party for some of them. He releases a supplement to his dictionary of army slang. CHAPTER XI—Hargrove gets his first ten-day furlough and heads for New York. He meets one of his friends from camp and duly im presses him by buying him a lunch at an exclusive hotel. Back at camp, he goes on KP duty for Thanksgiv ing Day. (Continued from last week) “Well, ’Simmons,” Johnny said, “it’s like they told you before you came in. The Army will certainly make a man of you. Look at Har grove there. He'd never done a good day’s work in his life before he got into the Army. Now he’s the potato-peeling champion of five reg iments.” “Private Lisk,” I said coldly, “let us not bring personalities into this.” Fortunately, Miss Scarborough, senior hostess of the Service Club, passed by and I was able to yank her into the company. The discus sion was avoided. -Im- Reading through the camp news paper the other day, I noticed sto ries written by Pvt. T. Mulvehill, Private Thos. Mulvehille, Pfc. Tom, Mulvehill, Thomas Mulvehill (pfc.) and various other authors whose names bore startling resemblance to Thomas Mulvehill, Pvt. or Pfc. The collection of literary and journalistic contributions to the Fort Bragg Post were all marked by the same flair for rhetoric, the true gift of gab, and a certain rich and gor geous sentimentality. In the midst of a factual story about a group of college girl choristers coming to Fort Bragg for a concert, the steady journalistic strain would suddenly burst into brilliant and majestic phrases such as “The Blankth Bat talion recreation hall will burst into golden sound next Tuesday night when the angelic voices of thirty lovely Zilch College young ladies present a recital .” or “the Gen eral’s little eight-year-old son, awed by the solemnity of the occasion, clung to his daddy’s hand through out the impressive ceremonies.” This is what is known as the Mul vehill Touch. The Mulvehill Touch is supplied at Fort Bragg by the Public Relations Office’s irrepressible and inimit able whirling dervish, Black Tom Mulvehill, a fantastic and unbeliev able Irish tyro, who came from New York City by way of Salt Lake City, Utah. Mulvehill of the great head and the shaggy locks, Mulvehill of the lumbering walk, the man of a thousand faces and a thousand voices—Mulvehill is the Public Re lations Office’s one spark of true glamour, our hope of immortality. Mulvehill is everywhere at all times. Out of every hundred photo graphs taken at Fort Bragg—offi cial or personal, professional or am ateur—it is safe to say that the flexible face of Private Mulvehill will beam out at you from ninety five of them. Photographers have no idea of how he gets into the pictures, but a picture of any “Rec” hall in the Center show Mulve hill playing ping-pong. (He’s the one nearest the camera.) Mulvehill’s next greatest talent is his ability to create wildness and confusion at will. His desk drawers bulge and spill great quantities of unrelated papers, old notes, news paper clippings, and weird personal effects. His working schedule and methods are chaotic and unfathom able. He can write six stories at once, using every needed typewriter in the building. CHAPTER XII Orville D. Pope, Mess Sergeant of Headquarters Battery and mas ter of all he surveys (so long as he stays in the kitchen), strolled past our table like a happy night-club owner inspecting his saloon. Photographer Bushemi lifted a forkful of creamed potatoes to his mouth, made a sour face and insert ed the potatoes as if they were sea soned with liniment. Don Bishop, the public relations reporter who sometimes shows a streak of sheer sanity, lifted his coffee, held his nose and drank it. “Sergeant Pope,” I said in a small voice, “earlier in the course of this supper I told you that I had never tasted anything harder or drier than the bread you served us tonight. I want to take that back, Pope. When I said that, I hadn’t tasted your peanut butter.’’ Sergeant Pope paused and gazed at us with heavy disgust. “The gentlemen of the press,” he said. “There ought to be something in the Articles of War about letting guys like you into a respectable mess hall.” “Then after they wrote that Arti cle of War,” said Bishop, “they could put in an amendment about letting us in mess halls like this one of yours.” “Some chow you’re putting out these days, Pope,” said Bushemi. “Like nothing I ever ate—unfortu nately! What are you doing—saving money to get married?” “You’re the only ones I ever hear griping about the chow in this bat tery,” said Pope. “You’re the only ones I ever have trouble with. You three and Mulvehill. If I’ll pay for your food, won’t you please take all your meals at the Service Club?” “Let’s leave Mulvehill’s name out of this,” I said. “Poor, poor, old Mulvehill. We knew him well. He was a good boy, was the Lieuthom as.” “I noticed the place is so quiet to night that you can even hear Bu shemi eating his celery,” said the sergeant. “Where is your dear friend Mulvehill, the bum?” “You have run him over the hill,” said Bishop. “Your food and your mess hall and your brutishly foul mouth have driven him away. He has deserted from the Army and his guilt is upon your hands.” “You know the one thing that’s missing from this meal—the one thing that would make it perfect?” asked Bushemi. “Ice cream?” asked the mess ser geant. “Chloroform,” said Bushemi. Pope slapped his forehead might ily. “Why couldn’t I have been a dud-picker, a horse valet, a suicide submarineman anything but a mess sergeant? Where is Mulve hill?” He wrinkled his forehead. “Say! He wasn’t here at break fast either.” “Nor lunch,” said Bishop. “Nor supper, nor lunch, nor breakfast yes terday.” “He has gone over the hill,” I said, gloomily. “He has deserted.” “Let’s see,” said the sergeant. “He wasn’t here all day today and he didn’t come in yesterday and he didn’t show up for supper the night before last. Is he sick?” “He would have been,” said Bish op, “if he hadn’t got a decent meal soon.” “I can remember Mulvehill just like he was right here with us even now,” I said. “He was a fine, no ble, sensitive lad. He had a beauti ful career before him in the Army. Fate can ruin any of us by tossing in the tiniest little monkey wrench—or the toughest little biscuit. I hated to see Mulvehill go over the hill.” “Cut the clowning.” the sergeant wailed, convinced at last that Mulve hill had flown. “You can’t make me think that he left because of my food. Where is he?” “That,” sighed Bishop, “is what the War Department would like to know.” Pope began drumming unconsci ously on the table. “I know my food is as good as any in the Center. That ain’t it. Did he take offense at something I said to him and start eating at the Service Club?” Acton Dennington Hawkins the Third, chief cook, passed by. “Where’s your friend Mulvehill?” he asked us. “Oh,” said Bushemi, forgetting the play, “Mulvehill’s on furlough.” The mess sergeant rose with a roar. “The day shall come!” he screamed. “You’ll all be on KP one of these days! Oh, will you suffer and will I enjoy myself! Finish your supper and get out of my mess hall! Get out! GET OUT!” -m- J_‘As if I didn’t have enough trou- £jSL. „t5.uci w ble on my hands with payday,” said Top Sergeant Tate, “now I have to be exposed to the sight of you. Be brief.” “Sergeant,” I began, “when I hear people say a soldier can’t live on the pay he makes, I’d like to show them myseif as a living proof that he can.” “Quit beating your gums,” he said, “and get to the point. You didn't come in here to compliment the Army on its pay. And take your cap off when you're in the orderly room.” “I didn’t come to compliment no body nor nothing,” I said, laying my cap on the corner of his desk. "I just came in to see if the War De partment is mad at me. They haven't given me a cent of salary since the first of October.” “What in the sweet name of heav en are you talking about?” the top kick hooted, handing me back the cap. “We’ve had two regular pay days, including the one today. And we’ve had two supplementary pay rolls for people who missed the reg ular paydays.” “Mind you,” I put in, “I’m not complaining. I eat regularly and I have a roof over my head. I can get haircuts and movie tickets and cigarettes and shoe polish on credit, but I certainly would like a little cash spending money from time to time.” “Well,” he groaned, slapping his desk wearily, “here we go again, Hargrove, the boy who makes a top kick’s life exciting! Hargrove the hopeless—the sloppy bunk on in spection day, the soap in the soup, the thorn in the side. Hargrove, the boy who can take the simplest problem and reduce it to its most confusing form. Now let’s start at the beginning ai»d take the whole thing slowly. You haven’t been paid since October first. How come?” “That was because when the No vember first payday came around, I had just got here. I signed the October payroll in my old battery.” “All right,” he said patiently, counting off a finger. “That’s one payday. That brings us up to No vember tenth, the day of the supple mentary payroll, when you should have got the pay you missed on the first. Did you sign the supple mentary payroll for that occasion?” “Yes, sir,” I insisted. “Then when the supplementary payday came around, something happened. Or to be more correct, nothing happened. I still didn’t get paid.” “That’s two paydays you missed,” the sergeant sighed. “I will check into the second later. Now—what about today’s pay?” “I missed out on that one too. The battery commander couldn’t find my signature on the payroll.” “Isn’t that just too utterly delight ful?” he cooed. “Couldn’t find your signature on the payroll! You know, I’ll bet some nasty old thing came along with ink eradicator and erased your signature from it! If your sig nature wasn’t on the payroll, Pri vate Hargrove, it was because you hadn’t signed the payroll!” “That makes sense,” I conceded. He patted me on both shoulders, a little heavily, and I cowered. “Wait just a minute, Private Har grove,” he said sweetly. “Let sar gie-wargie see what he can find out about the nasty old payroll.” He returned in a few minutes, frowning wearily. “Private Har grove,” he sighed, “dear Private Hargrove! You didn’t draw your pay on the tenth of November be cause you weren’t here on the tenth! You were on furlough! And you didn’t sign the payroll for today be cause you were on furlough while it was being signed. Your modest pay “Wait just a minute, Private Har grove,” he said sweetly, “Let sar gie-wargie see what he can find out about our nasty payroll.” for October has been in the battery safe for three weeks, just waiting for you to get around to picking it up.” He took a small envelope from be hind his back. “Twenty-one dollars for services rendered through the month of October. Harrumph! Mi nus two-forty for theater tickets, mi nus a dollar for haircuts, minus seven dollars for canteen checks. Private Hargrove, I present to you your October wages—ten dollars and sixty cents!” I took the money, looked at it ten derly, and crammed it into my pocket. Winter, at last, is upon us, in the rear ranks, the surest indication is to be found in reveille. All through the late summer and the fall, we hopped out of bed as soon as the whistle blew. Now we crawl grumblingly out when the ser geant puts the whistle to his lips for a “fall out!” blast. Since it is still dark when we stand reveille, and since we are aided occasionally by a heaven-sent fog, there are many sa viors of democracy who slip on merely a pair of shoes (partially laced), a pair of trousers, and a field jacket. The field jacket, when buttoned all the way to the collar, hides the absence of shirt and tie —and the sergeant is none the wiser. In Headquarters Battery, the process of getting up in the morn ing has sunk into a rut of repetition. It’s the same procedure every morn ing. Sergeant Roughton, platoon lead tpola hi& fciqzi at dx o’clock and a few energetic soldiers at the other end of the? squadroom rise and begin the mortning with sicken ingly cheerful horseplay. They yank the covers off their neighbors. The neighbors yank the covers back on. Private First Class Bishop, un official guardian of the public rela tions staff, rises from his bunk which is ney.t to mine. "Hargrove! Bushe mi! Get up' Salute the morn!” Then he yells down the length of the squadroom to the bod of Private First Class Thomas (“Thoss”) Mul vehill. Mulvehill, every morning, has al ready been forcibly ejected from his bed by his wild neighbors. He is, by this time, sitting on the edge of his bunk, with his great head sunk between his knees and his fingers fumbling with his shoelaces. In a thick and fiery Irish brogue, he is berating whatever forces of destiny put him in this mad corner of the squadroom. I stick a cautious toe out from un der the covers. The outer air isn’t cold but, then again, it isn’t warm. I roll over and look at the next bunk, where Private Bushemi is snoring gently. I roll back, get com fortable, and pull the cover over my head. “Hargrove!” roars Bishop. “Get your lazy bones out of bed! It’s five after six!” “Call me at ten after six,” I mut ter. “Better still just sing out when my name is called at reveille.” Private Bishop reaches over sud denly and rips the blankets from the bunk. I rise, cursing him sound- “Git out of there or I'll dump you out.” ly. Private Bushemi is still sleep ing, with a sweet and childish smile on his face. I lift a foot and give him a firm shove in the posterior. “Git out of there, you blankerty blanked dash-dash, shiftless, good for-nothing bum^” I shout, giving him two or three more shoves. “Git out of there or I’ll dump you out!” “Do me a favor, Hargrove,” he growls. “Crawl off somewhere and die. Just one more time you’re go ing to raise that club foot of yours and I’m going to get up and clip you one. Now go away.” I reach over and grab the edge of Bushemi’s bunk. I joggle it slight ly to give the impression that I am just about to overturn the bunk. Bushemi bounces out of bed, swing ing wildly. “You’re going to get funny just one morning too often, and I’m going to beat the eternal perdition out of both of you. It’s getting to the point where it ain’t funny.” Then he begins mumbling aimlessly under his breath as he steps into his trousers. Somehow, we manage to get into the second shoe just as the whistle blows to call us outside. We shiv er in the dark cold as section lead ers call the roll, mostly from mem ory. The second section of the first platoon is always the last to finish roll call. We stand there listening. “P-o-g-g-i!” “Hyoh!” “Pulver!” “Here!” and then the piece de re sistence: “Peacock!” Always the answer comes in the same way—an unbelievably deep bass, long-drawn out and rumbling: “Heeeeeeere!” The second platoon snickers and tit ters, just as it did the day before, and the top kick shouts, “Dis missed!” Bushemi heads straight back for his bunk. “Call me at chowtime, will you?” Breakfast time arrives and again we begin the ordeal of getting Bu shemi up. He lies there, fully clothed by this time, with a blanket thrown over him. “Call me at seven-fif teen, will you?” After swearing not to lend him money for coffee at the Service Club on his way to work, we strike out for the mess hall. Bill, a friend of Bushemi’s and mine in Charlotte, drives a street bus. Before he began his service as a driver, he served a hitch in the Army. Like all ex-service men, he’s ready to drop everything and just shoot the breeze any time the conversation turns to the Army. “There was a young first-class private got on my bus last week,” he told me, “and he sat in the long seat behind me, so we got started talking. Well, I thought I’d snow him under, telling him about the time I was in the Army. So, just to start the ball rolling and get the talk turned to the Army, I asked him how long he'd been in. ‘Oh, I’ve been in for well over eight months,’ he said, like he was just starting his thirtieth year of service. Then he started wiping his sleeves so I'd be sure to notice his private-first-class stripe. “I thought I’d let him blow off about his stripe, so I asked him, ‘Say, what does that stripe stand for?’ ‘Oh, that,’ he said, as much as to say aw-shucks-that-ain’t-nothing. That just means I’m a sergeant.’ ‘Is that right?’ I asked him, looking sort of widemouthed at him. ‘Yessir,’ he said, real casual, tin the Army only eight months and I’ve already been made sergeant.’ ‘Well, tell me,’ I said, ‘what grade of sergeant are you? I’ve seen some sergeants have three stripes and then I’ve seen them have as many as six. How come that?’ News want-ads bring results. News Notes From Four Counties (Continued from page 7) condition of the bond retirement and interest fund permitted their re tirement this year along with the remainder of a $75,000 bond issue of 1931 which financed an addition to the school. The last of the lat ter bonds were to be retired in 1946. Elimination of the debts and in terest charges represents a reduc tion in taxes of 2.6 mills, Mr. Smith said. Four Farmers’ Meet ings Set Arrangements for four meetings in the next two months of special interest to Putnam county farmers were announced at Ottawa by Coun ty Agent L. C. Holtkamp. Two of the meetings were held this week and the other two will be held in February. L. H. Barnes, extension specialist in farm management, was at the courthouse in Ottawa for a farm ac count and income tax meeting Tues day. He explained how to keep the new Ohio Farm Account book as well as indicate the receipts, ex penses and depreciation figures for the March 1944, final income tax re port. At 8 p. m. the same day a meet ing was held in the municipal build ing at which Barnes assisted farm ers in summarizing their 1943 farm account records. On Feb. 3, C. L. Blackman, dairy specialist, will be the principal speaker at two meetings where he will discuss feeding and manage ment together with the artificial in semination program. Holtkamp pointed out that farm ers having individual herd prob lems should contact the agent’s of fice and as many personal visits as possible will be made in the order requested. Putnam Grange Pro gram Set Plans for the 1944 grange pro gram in Putnam county were an nounced by Charles Reese, county deputy. The visiting program of the sub ordinate granges will be launched Feb. 7 with Leipsic going to Gilboa. Pandora will visit Sharon July 7 and Belmore will go to Pleasant, Sept. 25. Pomona grange has set up a busy schedule for the coming year. On March 24 a meeting will be held at Pandora with Pandora confer ring the fifth degree. Belmore will be host to the county group May 12 and Aug. 11. Sharon will be the host to Pomona grange. The an nual election of officers will take HomerrontS-CU READING z S '•».?■ ______ BARGAINS______ GROUP placc at the Nov. 10 meeting in Leipsic. There will be an per at Belmore Jan. annual Pomona picnic at the fairgrounds in 2. The seventh degree will be con ferred Nov. 16 at Pleasant grange hall. officers’ sup 27 while the will be held Ottawa July Union installation of officers will be held at Gilboa Dec. 29, 1944, in charge of Shawton grange. The in spection dates have been set as fol lows: Sharon, Aug. 18 Gilboa, Aug. 21 Pleasant, Aug. 28 Belmore,. Sept. 5 Pandora, Sept. 12, and Leipsic, Sept. 18. Ottawa Building Debt Paid Off Announcement that he has paid off the $4,095.60 which remained of the debt on the Ottawa municipal building was made by Edward A. Doepker, clerk. The payment Ohio Teachers’ which held the were not due until 1945. vance payment saved the community about $150 in interest. was made to the Retirement System last bonds which The ad- This leaves Ottawa with an in debtedness of about $11,000 which was fire buy borrowed to purchase a new truck three years ago and to a parking lot last year. Beaverdam Mr. and Mrs. Donald Michael and family spent the week end with Mr. and Mrs. Daniel Younkman and fam ily at Clyde. Dr. W. C. Lacock of Ft. Braggs, N. Carolina was a holiday visitor of Mrs. W. C. Lacock, son Allen and daughter Jane. Emil Gene Gratz spent the past week with Mr. and Mrs. Walter Neuenschwander in Indiana. Jack Oswalt of the Merchant Marines stationed in California was a holiday visitor of his parents Mr. and Mrs. B. J. Oswalt. Rev. and Mrs. Bernard Baughn spent a few days the past week relatives at Athens. Miss Ruth Durkee spent Year’s Charles ton. with New Mrs. Day with Mr. and Hankish and family at Bluff- Russell Downey Y. 3/c of Norfolk, Va., spent a few days the past week with his parents Mr. and Mrs. H. E. Downey. Mr. and Mrs. Windell Stewart en tertained in their home on Thursday evening a group of friends who were graduates of Col. Grove high school in which Mrs. Stewart was a member of the class. Those enjoying the evening were Lt. and Mrs. Joe Blos ser of Texas, Virgie Bartz, Radio man 2/c of Great Lakes. Ill., Mr. and Mrs. Charles Mayberry of Col. I Grove, Mrs. Christopher Nance of THIS NEWSPAPER (1 YEAR) AND SIX GREAT MAGAZINES $/|25 FOR BOTH NEWSPAPER AND MAGAZINES "f GROUP A Select Two Magazines AMERICAN HOME________________________________ 1 Yr. TRUE STORY 1 Yr. AMERICAN GIRL____________ ___________________ 6 Mo. O OPEN ROAD (BOYS) (12 Issues)-----------------------------14 Mo. PATHFINDER (Weekly)1 Yr. SPORTS AFIELD ..........................................................1 Yr. OUTDOORS (12 Issues)----------------------------------------- 14 Mo. B— Select Two Magazines FLOWER GROWER.6 Mo. o CHRISTIAN HERALD 6 Mo. PARENTS’ MAGAZINE 6 Mo. QTHE WOMAN ___________________________1 Yr. GROUP PATHFINDER (Weekly)___________________________1 Yr. Select Two Magazines AMERICAN FRUIT GROWER...........................................1 Yr. AMERICAN POULTRY JOURNAL__ 1 Yr. 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Mr. and Mrs. Irvin Sawmiller spent Sunday with Lansdown and field. Mr. and Mrs. Carl daughter at Spring- Hall of Lafayette is home of Mr. and Mrs. Daisy at the Watt. Mrs. visiting Raleigh Mrs. Arthur spending the week with Mr. and Mrs. Francis May. Rest and children are Mrs. Eugene Young, Mrs. H. E. Downey and Miss Ruth Durkee were Sunday evening callers of Mrs. Ella Andrews at Leipsic. Officers for the Ohio Swiss Cheese Association for 1944 are William D. Snyder, Mueller, Pearl, vice-presiden Stoltz, secretary-treasurer (26th consecutive term) and Emery A. Mast, Millers burg, and Joe Yaggi, New Philadel phia, 3-year directors. The Associa tion contributed $2,000 to the Ohio Dairy Products Research Fund. Baltic, president Ernest R. B. Ohio State University, INSURE with F. S. Herr Agency and be SURE Phone 363-W GOO? 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