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By Root 14088 0

of home where all the grave young highschool athletes who, despite their coaches with their turned-up topcoat collars and conflicting visions of Knute Rockne movies and jobs they feared to risk, fought frantically with the magnificent foolishness of youth as if the whole of life depended on this game, and who were still young enough to cry over a defeat, an illusion that their coaches never shared, a thing that like Santa Claus they themselves would lose all too soon before the widening range of vision and the knowledge that their loyalty was a commodity and could be shifted easily, and a thing that the men who perched on the concrete of the Boxing Bowl remembered fondly in their own hunger for a return to innocence.

The Regiment did not suffer over its defeat near as much as Dynamite, or as much as Dynamite thought it did. Its loyalties had been shifted from one outfit to another too many times, and its depression lasted exactly the time it took to walk home from the Bowl and get a small change crapgame started in the latrine. The bright light of the boxing squad faded rapidly. Payday was much nearer than next year’s season, and there were rumors that half the houses between River Street and Nuuana Avenue had got in shipments of new girls.

But if the honor of the Regiment had no other exponent except Dynamite, it had a great one there. After his interview with Col Delbert and the securing of his borderline reprieve, he collected his charts and maps and began the planning of next year’s campaign which was to be the greatest yet, and would bring the trophy back where it belonged. “It shall return,” he said, and even before the last Smoker had been played out he had begun to make his overlays and gather up his forces.

No Jeb Stuart, for his Pennsylvania raid, ever picked his personnel more carefully; no U.S. Grant, on this move against Jackson, ever deduced the counter movements of his foe more shrewdly; no Blackjack Pershing, in his fight for an American Army in France, ever played his politics more staunchly. And in addition, Dynamite Holmes ran his company, too. He even took care personally of the transfers that he needed.

Milt Warden was standing in the corridor doorway when Holmes loosed the thunderbolt of the transfer of the cook, Stark, from Ft. Kamehameha. It was raining hard that day and from the doorway he watched his commander come striding through the silver curtain, oblivious of the muddy quad, his tailored belted topcoat with its collar up around his ears flapping soddenly, but still smartly, around his booted legs, and shamefully there was none of the traditional, cheerful adoration in The Warden’s heart. Something about the striding figure told him this was not a routine trip to see that everything was running right and he was afflicted with a sense of foreboding ill.

“Boots and saddles,” he sneered out loud defiantly, but not loud enough for Holmes to hear, and turned his back upon the coming Captain and went inside, to prove his independence to himself.

“I want these fixed up right away,” Holmes said, coming dripping into the Orderly Room and pulling papers from inside his coat. “Wheres Mazzioli?”

“Over at Personnel,” Warden said, without enthusiasm. “Sgt/Maj O’Bannon called for all the clerks this morning.”

“Then you’ll have to fix them,” Holmes said, handing him the papers. “I want an endorsement, you know; and a good letter of recommendation.

“This man Stark served with me at Bliss and I’ve already talked to Col Delbert about him. He wrote Department Hq to get his request through channels safely.” Holmes took off his Cavalryman’s hat and swung it vigorously, scattering the water on the floor.

“My God,” he said, “its wet. He’s a damned fine man. I always like to do everything I can for my old men.”

“Yes, Sir,” Warden said, and went on studying the papers.

“I want it sent out today,” Holmes said happily. “I’ll wait and mail it myself. Theres some other things I want to talk to you about anyway. We’ve got a Pfc rating open, havent we?”

“Yes, Sir,” Warden said, and went on studying the papers.