THROUGH THE WHEAT
THROUGH
THE WHEAT
BY
THOMAS BOYD
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
NEW YORK · LONDON
1923
Copyright, 1923, by
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
Printed in the United States of America
Published April, 1923
THROUGH THE WHEAT
I
Dusk, like soft blue smoke, fell with thedying spring air and settled upon thenorthern French village. In the uncertainlight one and two story buildings set along thecrooked street showed crisply, bearing a resemblanceto false teeth in an ash-old face. Toyoung Hicks, disconsolate as he leaned againstthe outer wall of the French canteen, uponwhose smooth white surface his body made anunseemly blot, life was worth very little.
For nine interminable months William Hickshad been in France, shunted from one place toanother, acting out the odious office of the militarypolice, working as a stevedore beside evil-odoredblacks, helping to build cantonments andreservoirs for new soldiers ever arriving from theUnited States.
And he was supposed to be a soldier. He hadenlisted with at least the tacit understandingthat he was some day to fight. At the recruiting[2]office in Cincinnati the bespangled sergeanthad told him: “Join the marines and see somereal action.” And the heart of William Hickshad fled to the rich brogue and campaign ribbonsthat the sergeant professionally wore.
But was this action? Was this war? Wasthis for what William Hicks had come toFrance? Well, he told himself, it was not.Soldiering with a shovel. A hell of a way totreat a white man. There were plenty of peopleto dig holes in the ground, but not manyof them could qualify as sharpshooters. AndHicks swelled his chest a trifle, noticing the glintof the metal marksmanship badge on his tunic.
Resting beside him on the ground was a displayof unopened food tins above which rose theslender necks of bottles. Of the bottles therewere four, prisoning the white wine of the northernFrench vineyards. Excessive in numberwere the cans, and they looked as if their contentswere edible. But Hicks was not sure.He had bought them from the wizened littleFrench clerk who had regarded him with suspicionthrough the window of the canteen. Forthis suspicion, this slight hostility, Hicks didnot blame the little Frenchman. He had, herealized, made an ass of himself by pointing to[3]ambiguously labelled cans piled on the shelvesinside the canteen and saying: “la, combien?”Now he possessed a choice array of cans ofwhose contents he knew nothing. All that heasked was that he might be able to eat it.
That morning he had marched into the townwith his tired platoon from a small deserted railwaystation some miles distant. Once assignedto the houses in which they were to be billeted,the men had unstrapped their blankets andfallen asleep. But not Hicks. He had exploredthe village with an eye to disposing of the massof soiled and torn franc-notes which he carriedin his pocket. In the French canteen he hadfound the place for which he was looking. Andso he had stood before the clerk, demanding tobuy as much of the stock as he could carry.
But the clerk had closed the win