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The Odd Fellow |
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William Johnson was a peculiar young man. At the tender age of twenty, his
brow bore the weight of two deep furrows, suggesting a life lived with
unusual gravity. He possessed a quiet composure, often accompanied by a
faint smile that hinted at an inner world of thoughts. His eyesight was
keen, and his work ethic commendable; yet, there was one singular flaw in
his character: an insatiable appetite for sleep. No matter the setting,
whenever a moment of respite presented itself, he would unfurl his greatcoat
upon the ground and recline upon it. Within a mere two minutes, he would
succumb to slumber, impervious to the elements that surrounded him.
This penchant for napping was occasionally disrupted by two particular
occurrences. The first was the malfunction of their truck. Such an event
infused him with an energy so fervent that even the company commander or the
political instructor would find their entreaties to sleep rendered futile.
His soft, warm greatcoat became as uncomfortable as a bed of nails as he
clambered over the vehicle or crawled beneath it to address its ailments.
Should the issue be minor, he might indulge in a brief nap post-repair;
however, if the problem proved significant, he would labor tirelessly until
the truck was once again prepared for the road, often into the night. His
appetite for sustenance waned in the face of duty; he would request a few
steamed rolls, and if those were unavailable, he would content himself with
a biscuit washed down with a mug of hot water. He deliberately refrained
from allowing Henry Williams to handle repairs during the day, believing the
driver needed rest more than he did. Only when confronted with a dilemma
beyond his expertise would he seek Henry’s counsel.
The second interruption to his slumber came in the form of urgent
assignments, such as the one that awaited them today. There was no cause for
concern in Henry Williams’ mind. When enemy aircraft approached at night,
they maneuvered through the darkness without lights. William would sway
gently, his breath soft and rhythmic as if lost in dreams; yet, at any
moment, he might erupt with a cry: "Stop! Bomb crater!" With a bound, he
would leap from the truck to gauge the depth of the hole, assessing whether
it was possible to navigate around it. If avoidance proved impossible, he
would retrieve his shovel from the truck, wordlessly preparing to fill the
gap. In less than ten minutes, he would skillfully restore the terrain.
In stark contrast stood Henry Williams. He was a vigilant and energetic man,
bursting with an unquenchable desire to complete tasks at the swiftest pace
possible. He could not abide a speed beneath sixty kilometers per hour, a
tendency that often led to spirited disputes between the two. Once, while
traversing a zone under artillery fire, Henry yearned to accelerate to full
speed, but William vehemently opposed the notion. Rather than expound upon
the intricacies of the situation, William simply asserted, “No matter how
swiftly you drive, you cannot outrun the shells.”
“What then do you propose?” Henry queried.
“I advocate for speed on well-maintained roads, yet the ground before us is
riddled with craters. Should you drive recklessly, even if we evade the
shells, a collision would render the truck utterly useless.”
Following William’s prudent counsel, Henry acquiesced with calm acceptance.
Their only consequence was a few shards of shrapnel that left unsightly
tears in the truck’s canopy. |
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