A MILITARY INTERLUDE By Ernest Haycox The hut was both cold and dark. There were no windows to admit the light of the waning day, but through every crack and chink penetrated the sharp, bitter air of January. Alva Jukes, standing in the doorway, saw only white ovals of faces staring upward from the wretched pallets and, though he was a brash, hard-tempered man, oft called upon to witness suffering, the sight of so much unnecessary misery fed the latent rebellion in his Scotch-Irish heart. He struck a posture, put a hand to a hip as if caressing a sword-hilt and mimicked the voice of a colonel well known but not well loved by the brigade-- “And what have you got for supper, my brave fellows?” The answer came back to him in mock respect from half a dozen throats-- “Fire-cake and water, sir!” “Ah,” purred Jukes, plucking at an imaginary cloak, “and what have you for breakfast, sons of freedom?” “Fire-cake and water, sir!” “And now, my laddies, tell me what you eat for dinner.” “Fire-cake and water, sir!” Jukes, grinning dourly through his whiskers, joined them in the chorus-- “God send our commissary of purchases to live on fire-cake and water.” Snow blanketed Valley Forge, dampened the lesser camp sounds and made the crackling-cold air seem doubly severe. A cart, loaded with wood, crept past the hut, drawn by ten or twelve men hitched to a rope; men who moved with dreadful slowness, heads bent, feet slipping on the ground. Here and there fires burned on the brigade street, surrounded by the feeble and the ragged. An officer rode by--a queer sight with a counterpane covering him from head to foot and a shawl, wrapped turban fashion around his head. Alva Jukes stared at these scenes with somber eyes, his hatchet-faced visage growing more and more pointed. “What’s become o’ the fire I left burnin’?” he asked. “---- of a crew you are to let it die!” “There ain’t no more wood, Serg’nt,” croaked a remote voice. “I give it the last lick an’ a promise, but it didn’t seem to help. Here’s a letter fer you--come by the courier a small time back.” “Hey, a letter?” muttered Jukes. “An’ who’d be writin’ to me?” He crossed the threshold and met a man’s outstretched hand. Retreating to the open, he broke the seal and spread the paper before puzzled eyes. It took some time for him to decipher the illiterate, poorly formed scrawl, for he had no more education than the common run; but at last he mastered the sentences, face settling. D’r son, you been gone 2 years now, ain’t it time to come hame I ben worrit for y’r helth, the Neely boys went to war for 3 months an come hame braggin fit to kill. Y’ve did your share, pa is doin porely, seems he cant get his wind back after the cold. I never eat but think you must be starvin. Come hame, y’r lovein mother. He folded the message and tucked it in his pocket. Some one coughed spasmodically, ending with a strangled sigh.