§ 359 At the Extreme Rear
Up toward Chateau Thierry in the big shove of 1918, a brigade commander of the A. E. F., temporarily separated from his staff, was making a sort of private reconnaissance toward the front. It was night-time. Directly ahead of him, he knew, was a negro infantry regiment, now under fire for the first time.
All at once he encountered a straggler. Perhaps it would be unfair to refer to this person as a straggler, for he was giving a spirited imitation of a foot-racer.
“Halt, there!” shouted the outraged brigadier.
The fleeing private slowed up.
“What do you mean by running away in this disgraceful manner?”
“Boss,” quavered the black man, “I ain’t been aimin’ to run away, but these yere feets of mine jest natchelly carried me out of dat mess up yonder.”
“Well, you face about and rejoin your company immediately.”
Reluctantly the unhappy soldier reversed himself and started to obey. Then he hesitated and over his shoulder he put a question:
“Who is you, to be givin’ me dese yere awders? You ain’t no cap’n, is you?”
“I am the general commanding this brigade—that’s who.”
“Lawsy me!” quoth the darky, half to himself. “I sho’ must a’ run a long ways to git clear back to where the gene’ls stay!”