In a way I was sorry not to be going with the outfit, for then I might see some real action; but real action would be dangerous for me, and I liked working for the General so well and I got along so easily, that I was glad he was taking me with him. I mean, common sense told me I’d have less to worry about if I stuck with him. This headquarters company might be all broken up before long anyway and I might find myself a cook or pick-and-shovel expert—which wouldn’t be so good. Chilblaines would be with him, too—he was promoted to a captaincy, so he could act as General Backett’s personal aide. And Getterlow was assigned to drive for him. Getterlow was a good chauffeur, when he was sober—which was seldom. I surely did hate to leave Ben. When I told him the news, he was almost heart-broken. “Can’t ya get me a job drivin’ er doin’ somethin’?” he wanted to know. “I’d give my shirt to get into somethin’ different. This orderlyin’ an’ doin’ nothing in particular is a hell of a life fer an able-bodied soljer like me.” “Maybe Getterlow will get the can before long,” I encouraged him. “How in hell did that guy get that job?” he demanded. “He ain’t no chauffeur. He told me hisself he used to work in a jewelry store!” I explained that Getterlow had a wagoner’s rating and was assigned to this job by the officer who had charge of such duties. “Well, I can’t see it!” Ben maintained. “I used to work in a garage an’ I know more about wagons than that kike will ever know. But I can’t get close enough to even touch an automobile in this man’s army.” I told him I’d do anything I could to get him transferred if anything should happen to Getterlow—“In fact, I’ll do my best to help something happen to him. I’ll even buy a few drinks for him, if that will help any.” “I hope he gets the D.T.’s!” Ben meant exactly that, too. “He’s nothin’ but a handshaker! This is a hell of a war an’ a hell of an army: if you’re a good cook, they make a machine gunner outa ya; if ya can run an airplane, they put ya to work in a canteen sellin’ cigarettes. I suppose, havin’ been a boxer, I’ll end up as a bugler! I know it ain’t yer fault, Leony—but ya do what ya can, will ya?” And I surely wanted to, for I hated to leave him, more than I would if he were my brother Leon. He certainly was one damned fine egg! That evening I went down to say good-by to Lisa. I didn’t stay long. Her husband was about and he didn’t take his eye off us all the time I was there. I guess Lisa didn’t think the jealousy joke was so funny now. She said he had accused her of everything from adultery to incest and that he told her he supposed he’d come home sometime and find her in the arms of a “big black American Indian.” That was awful—I mean, for a man to talk that way to his wife. And Lisa must have been a good wife, too. But she wouldn’t tell him the truth. Said she’d manage him all right.