W Col. Alvin M. Owsley National Commander of the American Legion HEN you see the Stars and Stripes displayed, son, stand up and take off your hat. Somebody may titter. It is in the blood of some to deride all expression of noble sentiment. You may blaspheme in the street and stagger drunken in public places, and the bystanders will not pay much attention to you, but if you should get down on your knees and pray to Almighty God, or if you should stand bareheaded while a company of old soldiers marches by with flags to the breeze, most people will think you are showing off. But don't you mind! When Old Glory comes along, salute, and let them think what they please. When the band plays The Star Spangled Banner in a restaurant or hotel dining room, get up, even if you rise alone; stand there, and don't be ashamed of it, either. Don't be ashamed when your throat chokes and the tears come when you see the flag flying from the masts of our ships on the great seas or floating from every flagstaff of the Republic. You will never have a worthier emotion. For of all the signs and symbols since the world began there is none so full of meaning as the flag of this country. Other flags mean a glorious past; this flag means a glorious future. It is not so much the flag of our fathers as it is the flag of our children, and of countless children yet unborn. It is the flag of tomorrow, the signal of the "Good time coming." It is not the flag of your king; it is the flag of yourself and your neighbors. Your flag stands for humanity, for an equal opportunity to all the sons of men. Of course, we have not yet arrived at that goal; injustice still dwells among us; senseless and cruel customs of the past still cling to us, but the flag leads the way to righting the wrongs of men. Our flag is the world's symbol of liberty. That piece of red, white, and blue bunting means five thousand years of struggle upwards. It is the full-grown flower of generations fighting for liberty. It is the century plant of human hope in bloom. T Loyalty ENIENTE!" Lieu tenant William Flynn, Philippine Constabulary, turned and as he reached for his Colt's .45, looked in the direction that his sergeant pointing. was Just at the border of the narrow, creeper bordered passageway that bare feet had worn through the dense undergrowth he saw what had attracted the sergeant's attention-a brown foot and a white cloth protruding from the brush at the edge. These were the days of ambush and sudden rushes in the Sulu Islands, for the Moros were far from their present condition of quietness, and caution was the watchword among men who lived day to day in anticipation of an end. by the bolo route as a very possible outlook at any time. It was sure trouble to venture into the jungle along the trails with less than fifteen men. Motioning to his men, the patrol moved forward cautiously and prepared for any surprise. No movement followed their advance and the patrol halted. Flynn advanced and carelessly put away his pistol as he saw that the foot belonged to a native who was helpless-a Moro, short, squat and ugly, but of unusual physical develop ment. "What's the matter with him?" demanded Flynn of his sergeant. The sergeant made a face of disgust and spat. "He sick-smallpox." "Well, pick him up and we will take him along and do what we can for him," the lieutenant replied. With visible reluctance the men made a rude stretcher and placed the sick Moro upon it, he being unable to move from weakness. As they were doing this the lieutenant gave the Moro a good look and noted that his bared chest and arms were unusually well developed and that he was undoubtedly one of the strongest natives that he had ever seen. It was a good twenty kilometers back to the station, but the patrol made it before the end of the afternoon and ended their three-day patrol with no other incident of interest except this sick Moro. The patient was turned over to the native practicante and isolated in a small nipa shack outside the compound. Thereafter, busy with other matters and absent much of the time from his station, the lieutenant forgot about his rescued Moro. Some five weeks later, returning from another long patrol, Flynn went to his quarters and undressed for the evening-a custom at the station. Having achieved pajamas and slippers, Flynn came out on the screened-in porch to enjoy the moonlight and a good smoke before taking himself off to the bunk and much-needed rest. The sentries were pacing back and forth between the barbed-wire stockades, the sound of their equipment and their steady footfalls lending a feeling of security. One could never tell what would happen, mused Flynn, looking Flynn's thinking was disturbed by "Sir, the sergeant wants you to see the man who was sick," the corporal replied to the lieutenant's question. "Have the sergeant bring him here." "Very well, sir," replied the corporal with a snappy salute, and left. The approach of the sergeant a few Speaking through the sergeant, the "Master, you saved me when I was to be a constabulary soldier and to be your servant also.' Flynn's native orderly had been discharged and he had been hard put to it to find a substitute. Flynn decided that here might be just what he wanted and so told the sergeant to enlist the man in the morning and to put him on duty at his quarters after drill hours. Next morning he was at work at Flynn's quarters clad in brand new khaki. He picked up things readily. He mastered the details of making the bed almost at once. Boots were shined, equipment cared for and food served as never before, and the lieutenant soon realized that he had found a good striker in the smallpox victim whom he had admired for his muscles, little realizing that those self-same muscles would some day strain their utmost to save him from death. Besides attending to Flynn's quarters the Moro, of course, did his duties as a soldier, and the lieutenant noted that he learned his work there as well as he had his striker's tasks. The sick Moro was soon forgotten in the smart and soldierly recruit. For some time the district had been very quiet. One day, however, an alarm came in. The runner reported that a small band of ladrones had raided a barrio near the coast in the southern end of the district, killing several natives and carrying away a good deal of plunder. The band was reported to be small, not more than ten men. The garrison was short handed at the time, many enlistments having expired. As the force that had made the raid was reported to be so small, Flynn decided to take with him only ten men. Giving the necessary orders and telephoning a report of the raid and his own actions to headquarters, he buckled on his equipment and prepared to leave. On joining the patrol in front of the barracks he saw his striker armed and ready to go along, too. "Hum," mused Flynn. "I've never had him out with me, but he ought to be good. I will try him out anyway. He's got to learn sooner or later." As the little patrol took the trail, with one man and a corporal ahead of him, the lieutenant found his striker marching along in his rear, with the rest strung out in single file behind him. As the day wore on the lieutenant glanced back several times at his men and could not help but admire the way his new recruit hiked along tirelessly. He decided that he had a good soldier as well as a good striker and that it might be a paying investment to pick up a few more smallpox cases if he could. At nightfall the little patrol reached the raided village. The teniente of the barrio came out to meet the patrol followed by several of the men and boys. Flynn listened to them and found that if their statements were correct the strength of the ladrones was more nearly fifty than ten. He immediately dispatched one of the natives of the barrio with a message to be telephoned to headquarters, requesting more men be sent out to join him, and saying that he was going to follow the trail of the band. Reinforcements were sent out from the two nearest stations under Captain Tompkins. The reinforcements had not been out more than an hour when a runner appeared out of the dark along the trail. "Flynn and his patrol reported ambushed and killed near Tapukan. Patrols from Jolo and Indinan on way to join you at Manuk. Proceed with all dispatch." Tompkins and his men moved along the trail at a quickened pace. Tommy could not believe it. Flynn killed. He loved the big Irish lieutenant like a brother. The moon sank behind the forest outline, but the patrol kept on its way. Each little break in the cogan grass offered the prospect of a trap, each cross trail a danger. Progress was slow, difficult and dangerous, and the nerves of the men were on edge as the sky began to grow light in the east. As they rounded a bend in the trail the point ahead halted. He had heard suspicious crackling in the grass ahead. A form appeared in the shadows ahead. Nervous and overkeen from the long night march with its constant strain, the point fired at the shadow as he cried "Halt!" The shot was followed by a groan and then by a weak voice that Tommy Tompkins recognized as that of Flynn. Regardless of a possible ambush he rushed forward. In the pale light he found Flynn stretched out flat on the trail. He was liberally bandaged with leaves and bloody all over. Under him was the figure of a soldier, his uniform torn and dirty and soaked with blood. "Look after that man!" groaned Flynn weakly. "I hope to God you haven't killed him. He's that new striker you wanted to take away from me so bad, Captain. He fought like Hell to save me, but I guess they did for him. They had me down and would have got me for sure if this little devil hadn't picked me up and ran-ran-ran." Flynn's voice trailed off weakly. He had fainted. They lifted up the body of the rescuer. The soldier was badly wounded in several places and he had apparently lost apparently lost a very great deal of blood. Blood coming from a bullet wound in his chest showed where the shot that Captain Tompkins' point fired had struck. But, despite his weakness the little Moro grinned and spoke in the dialect: "Teniente save me-I save him." And then he dropped back dead. The Chief Pleased With R. O. T. C. |