When I heard that, I beat a hasty retreat. A moment later Chilblaines appeared, very flushed in the face and looking rather uncomfortable. I chalked up a great big mark to the General’s credit, believe me. He surely was one fine man. Ben said he was a “damn good guy!” And Esky seemed to know something had happened, for he made no bones about romping all over the compartment, since Ben ceased to restrain him. He made friends for us all over the place, and I felt pretty good. —3— Nothing much happened the next day, except a darned good time down in our hole, singing barrack-room ballads and telling dirty stories. I didn’t tell any, but I did a good job at listening. Oh, yes, something else did happen. Ben was fully recovered, eating like a horse and buying chewing tobacco again—and this last got him into trouble. He was lying on his bunk, having a beautiful spree with his cud when the top-kicker called “attention” for inspection. But the top-kicker was a little late, and the result was that the inspecting officer had reached the bottom of the ladder by the time Ben rolled out. But Ben didn’t stop to see how far down the officer was: he just screwed up his face and sent a torrent of tobacco juice in the direction of the G.I. can at the foot of the ladder. It was a beautiful shot and made a bull’s-eye—after passing within an inch of the officer’s nose. The officer—he’s a captain—stumbled backwards and sat down on the bottom of the ladder. He couldn’t see Ben and Ben couldn’t see him, and so when the captain arose to his feet he was favored with another narrow escape, this time from a hurtling ball of chewing tobacco. This missile didn’t come quite so close to the captain’s nose, but it made a bull’s-eye in the G.I. can just as Ben became aware of the error of his ways. The officer came to him directly. “Chewing tobacco during an inspection, eh? Didn’t you hear the sergeant call you to attention?” “Yes, sir.” “Didn’t you see me coming down that ladder?” “No, sir—I don’t see how you got there so quick.” “Don’t talk back. I don’t need any of your opinions or thoughts.” “Yes, sir,” Ben clamped his jaws together and kept his mouth shut throughout the merciless bawling out which the captain felt it his duty to give. And then he noticed Esky. “Whose dog is that?” he demanded, as if he were glad to find something else to kick about. But Ben fooled him. “General Backett’s dog, sir,” he declared. “Sergeant Canwick just takes care of him, sir.” The captain wheeled about and continued his tour, but Ben was shivering for days for fear the top-kicker would favor him with a detail on Kitchen Police or “head orderly,” neither of which were very easy on the stomach. Ben said, “This war is just one g—— d—— thing after another and I ain’t had a whole hour o’ rest since it started!” Personally, I thought we were getting along beautifully. If God would just stick with us—that’s all I asked!