"What's your name, Bud?" asked the sarge.

"Bobby. Bobby Pettit."

"Well, Bobby Pettit," said the sarge, "I'll just call ya Bobby. I always call the men by their first names. And they all call me mother. Just like they was at home."

"Oh," said Pettit.

Then it went off. Every fuse has two ends; the one that's lighted and the one that's clubby with the T.N.T.

"Listen, Pettit!" boomed the sarge. "I ain't runnin' no fifth grade. You're in the Army, dumb guy. You're supposed t'know ya ain't got two left shoulders and that port arms ain't present arms. Wutsa matter with ya? Ain'tcha got no brains?"

"I'll get the hang of it," Pettit predicted.

The next day we had practice in tent pitching and pack making. When the sarge came around to inspect, it developed that Pettit hadn't bothered to hammer the tent pegs slightly below the surface of the ground. Observing the subtle flaw, the sarge, with one yank of his hand, collapsed entirely Bobby Pettit's little canvas home.

"Pettit," cooed the sarge. "You are. . . without a doubt . . .the dumbest . . .the stupidest . . .the clumsiest gink I ever seen. Are ya nuts, Pettit? Wutsa matter with ya? Ain'tcha got no brains?"

Pettit predicted, "I'll get the hang of it."

Then everybody made up full packs. Pettit made up his like a veteran--just like one of the Boys in Blue. Then the sarge came around to inspect. It was his cheery custom to pass in the rear of the men, and with a short, bludgeon-like stroke of his forearm slam down on the regulation burden on the back of every mother's son.

He came to Pettit's pack. I'll spare the details. I'll just say that everything came apart save the last five segments in Bobby Pettit's vertebrae. It was a sickening sound. The sarge came around to face Pettit, what was left of him.

"Pettit. I met lotsa dumb guys in my time," related the sarge. "Lots of 'em. But you, Pettit, you're in a class by yourself. Because you're the dumbest!"

Pettit stood there on his three feet.

"I'll get the hang of it," he managed to predict.

First day of target practice, six men at a time fired at six targets, prone position exclusively. The sarge passed up and down, examining firing positions.

"Hey, Pettit. Which eye are you lookin' through?"

"I don't know," said Pettit. "The left, I guess."

"Look through the right!" bellowed the sarge. "Pettit, you're takin' twenny years offa my life. Wutsa matter with ya? Ain'tcha got no brains?"

That was nothing. When, after the men had fired, the targets were rolled in, there was a gay surprise for all. Pettit had fired all his shots at the target of the man on his right.

The sarge almost had an attack of apoplexy. "Pettit," he said, "you got no place in this man's army. You got six feet. You got six hands. Everybody else only got two!"

"I'll get the hang of it," said Pettit.

"Don't say that to me again. Or I'll kill ya. I'll akchally kill ya, Pettit. Because I hatecha, Pettit. You hear me? I hatecha!"'

"Gee," said Pettit. "No kidding?"

"No kidding, brother," said the sarge.

"Wait'll I get the hang of it," said Pettit. "You'll see. No kidding. Boy, I like the Army. Some day I'll be a colonel or something. No kidding."

Naturally I didn't tell my wife that our son, Harry, reminds me of Bob Pettit back in '17. But he does nevertheless. In fact, the boy is even having sergeant trouble at Fort Iroquois. It seems, according to my wife, that Fort Iroquois nurses to its bosom one of the toughest, meanest first sergeants in the country. There is no necessity, declares my wife, in being mean to the boys. Not that Harry's complained. He likes the Army, only he just can't seem to please this terrible first sergeant. Just because he hasn't got the hang of it yet.

And the colonel of this regiment. He's no help at all, my wife feels. All he does is walk around and look important. A colonel should help the boys, see to it that mean first sergeants don't take advantage of the boys, destroy their spirit. A colonel, my wife feels, should do more than just walk around the place.

Well, a few Sundays ago the boys at Fort Iroquois put on their first spring parade. My wife and I were there in the reviewing stand, and with a yelp that nearly took my hat off she picked out our Harry as he marched along.

"He's out of step," I told my wife.

"Oh, don't be that way," said she.

"But he is out of step," I said.

"I suppose that's a crime. I suppose he'll be shot for that. See! He's in step again. He was only out for a minute."

Then, when the National Anthem was played, and the boys were standing with their rifles at presents arms, one of them dropped his rifle. It makes quite a clatter on a hard field.

"That was Harry," I said.

"It could happen to anybody," retorted my wife. "Keep quiet."

Then, when the parade was over and the men had been dismissed, First Sergeant Grogan came over to say hello. "How do, Mrs. Pettit."

"How do you do," said my wife, very chilly.

"Think there's any hope for our boy, sergeant?" I asked.

The sarge grinned and shook his head. "Not a chance," he said. "Not a chance, colonel."

The Heart of a Broken Story.

by J.D. Salinger.

Every day Justin Horgenschlag, thirty-dollar-a-week printer's assistant, saw at close quarters approximately sixty women whom he had never seen before. Thus in the four years he had lived in New York, Horgenschlag had seen at close quarters about 75,120 different women. Of these 75,120 women, roughly 25,000 were under thirty years of age and over fifteen years of age. Of the 25,000 only 5,000 weighed between one hundred five and one hundred twenty-five pounds. Of these 5,000 only 1,000 were not ugly. Only 500 were reasonably attractive; only 100 were quite attractive; only 25 could have inspired a long, slow whistle. And with only 1 did Horgenschlag fall in love with at first sight.

Now, there are two kinds of femme fatale. There is the femme fatale in every sense of the word, and there is the femme fatale who is not a femme fatale in every sense of the word.

Her name was Shirley Lester. She was twenty years old (eleven years younger than Horgenschlag), was five-foot-four (bringing her head to the level of Horgenschlag's eyes), weighed 117 pounds (light as a feather to carry). Shirley was a stenographer, lived with and supported her mother, Agnes Lester, an old Nelson Eddy fan. In references to Shirley's looks people often put it this way: "Shirley's as pretty as a picture."

And in the Third Avenue Bus early one morning, Horgenschlag stood over Shirley Lester, and was a dead duck. All because Shirley's mouth was open in a peculiar way. Shirley was reading a cosmetic advertisement in the wall panel of the bus; and when Shirley read, Shirley relaxed slightly at the jaw. And in that short moment while Shirley's mouth was open, lips were parted, Shirley was probably the most fatal one in all Manhattan. Horgenschlag saw in her a positive cure-all for a gigantic monster of loneliness which had been stalking around his heart since he had come to New York. Oh, the agony of it! The agony of standing over Shirley Lester and not being able to bend down and kiss Shirley's parted lips. The inexpressible agony of it!

That was the beginning of the story I started to write for Collier's. I was going to write a lovely tender boy-meets-girl story. What could be finer, I thought. The world needs boy-meets-girl stories. But to write one, unfortunately, the writer must go about the business of having the boy meet the girl. I couldn't do it with this one. Not and have it make sense. I couldn't get Horgenschlag and Shirley together properly. And here are the reasons: Certainly it was impossible for Horgenschlag to bend over and say in all sincerity: "I beg your pardon. I love you very much. I'm nuts about you. I know it. I could love you all my life. I'm a printer's assistant and I make thirty dollars a week. Gosh, how I love you. Are you busy tonight?"

This Horgenschlag might be a goof, but not that big a goof. He may have been born yesterday, but not today. You can't expect Collier's readers to swallow that kind of bilge. A nickel's a nickel, after all.

I couldn't, of course, all of a sudden give Horgenschlag a suave serum, mixed from William Powell's old cigarette case and Fred Astaire's old top hat.

"Please don't misunderstand me, Miss. I'm a magazine illustrator. My card. I'd like to sketch you more than I've ever wanted to sketch anyone in my life. Perhaps such an undertaking would be to a mutual advantage. May I telephone you this evening, or in the very near future? (Short, debonair laugh.) I hope I don't sound too desperate. (Another one.) I suppose I am, really."

Oh, boy. Those lines delivered with a weary, yet gay, yet reckless smile. If only Horgenschlag had delivered them. Shirley, of course, was an old Nelson Eddy fan herself, and an active member of the Keystone Circulating Library.

Maybe you're beginning to see what I was up against.

True, Horgenschlag might have said the following: "Excuse me, but aren't you Wilma Pritchard?"

To which Shirley would have replied coldly, and seeking a neutral point on the other side of the bus: "No."

"That's funny," Horgenschlag could have gone on, "I was willing to swear you were Wilma Pritchard. Uh, you don't by any chance come from Seattle?"

"No."--More ice where that came from.

"Seattle's my home town."

Neutral point.

"Great little town, Seattle. I mean it's really a great little town. I've only been here--I mean in New York--for four years. I'm a printer's assistant. Justin Horgenschlag is my name."

"I'm really not interested."

Oh, Horgenschlag wouldn't have gotten anywhere with that kind of line. He had neither the looks, personality, or good clothes to gain Shirley's interest under the circumstances. He didn't have a chance. And, as I said before, to write a really good boy-meets-girl story it's wise to have the boy meet the girl.

Maybe Horgenschlag might have fainted, and in doing so grabbed for support: the support being Shirley's ankle. He could have torn the stocking that way, or succeeded in ornamenting it with a fine long run. People would have made room for the stricken Horgenschlag, and he would have got to his feet, mumbling: "I'm all right, thanks," then "Oh, say! I'm terribly sorry, Miss. I've torn your stocking. You must let me pay for it. I'm short of cash just now, but just give me your address."

Shirley wouldn't have given him her address. She just would have become embarrassed and inarticulate. "It's all right," she would have said, wishing Horgenschlag hadn't been born. And besides, the whole idea is illogical. Horgenschlag, a Seattle boy, wouldn't have dreamed of clutching at Shirley's ankle. Not in the Third Avenue Bus.

But what is more logical is the possibility that Horgenschlag might have got desperate. There are still a few men who love desperately. Maybe Horgenschlag was one. He might have snatched Shirley's handbag and run with it towards the rear exit door. Shirley would have screamed. Men would have heard her, and remembered the Alamo or something. Horgenschlag's flight, let's say, is now arrested. The bus is stopped. Patrolman Wilson, who hasn't made a good arrest in a long time, reports on the scene. What's going on here? Officer, this man tried to steal my purse.

Horgenschlag is hauled into court. Shirley, of course, must attend session. They both give their addresses; thereby Horgenschlag is informed of the location of Shirley's divine abode.

Judge Perkins, who can't even get a good, a really good cup of coffee in his own house, sentences Horgenschlag to a year in jail. Shirley bites her lip, but Horgenschlag is marched away.

In prison, Horgenschlag writes the following letter to Shirley Lester:

"Dear Miss Lester:

"I did not really mean to steal your purse. I just took it because I love you. You see I only wanted to get to know you. Will you please write me a letter sometime when you get the time? It gets pretty lonely here and I love you very much and maybe even you would come to see me some time if you get the time.

Your friend,

Justin Horgenschlag"

Shirley shows the letter to all her friends. They say, "Ah, it's cute, Shirley." Shirley agrees that it's kind of cute in a way. Maybe she'll answer it. "Yes! Answer it. Give'm a break. What've ya got t'lose?" So Shirley answers Horgenschlag's letter.

"Dear Mr. Horgenschlag:

"I received your letter and really feel sorry about what has happened. Unfortunately there is very little we can do about it at this time, but I do feel abominable concerning the turn of events. However, your sentence is a short one and soon you will be out. The best of luck to you.

Sincerely yours,

Shirley Lester"