Public-domain ebook
by Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews
Language: en489 downloads on Project Gutenberg
Subjects
In: Novels·American Literature·History - Modern (1750+)
Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #15796.
The opening · free to read
_The time is a summer day in 1918. The scene is the first-line trench of the Germans--held lately by the Prussian Imperial Guard--half an hour after it had been taken by a charge of men from the Blank_th Regiment, United States Army. There has been a mistake and the charge was not preceded by artillery preparation as usual. However, the Americans have taken the trench by the unexpectedness of their attack, and the Prussian Guard has been routed in confusion. But the German artillery has at once opened fire on the Americans, and also a German machine gun has enfiladed the trench. Ninety-nine Americans have been killed in the trench. One is alive, but dying. He speaks, being part of the time delirious.
The Boy. Why can't I stand? What--is it? I'm wounded. The sand-bags roll when I try--to hold to them. I'm--badly wounded. (Sinks down. Silence.) How still it is! We--we took the trench. Glory be! We took it! (Shouts weakly as he lies in the trench.) (Sits up and stares, shading his eyes.) It's horrid still. Why--they're here! Jack--you! What makes you--lie there? You beggar--oh, my God! They're dead. Jack Arnold, and Martin and--Cram and Bennett and Emmet and--Dragamore--Oh--God, God! All the boys! Good American boys. The whole blamed bunch--dead in a ditch. Only me. Dying, in a ditch filled with dead men. What's the sense? (Silence.) This damned silly war. This devilish--killing. When we ought to be home, doing man's work--and play. Getting some tennis, maybe, this hot afternoon; coming in sweaty and dirty--and happy--to a tub--and dinner--with mother. (Groans.) It begins to hurt--oh, it hurts confoundedly. (Becomes delirious.) Canoeing on the river. With little Jim. See that trout jump, Jimmie? Cast now. Under the log at the edge of the trees. That's it! Good--oh! (Groans.) It hurts--badly. Why, how can I stand it? How can anybody? I'm badly wounded. Jimmie--tell mother. Oh--good boy--you've hooked him. Now play him; lead him away from the lily-pads. (Groans.) Oh, mother! Won't you come? I'm wounded. You never failed me before. I need you--if I die. You went away down--to the gate of life, to bring me inside. Now--it's the gate of death--you won't fail? You'll bring me through to that other life? You and I, mother--and I won't be scared. You're the first--and the last. (Puts out his arm searching and folds a hand, still warm, of a dead soldier.) Ah--mother, my dear. I knew--you'd come. Your hand is warm--comforting. You always--are there when I need you. All my life. Things are getting--hazy. (He laughs.) When I was a kid and came down in an elevator--I was all right, I didn't mind the drop if I might hang on to your hand. Remember? (Pats dead soldier's hand, then clutches it again tightly.) You come with me when I go across and let me--hang on--to your hand. And I won't be scared. (Silence.) This damned--damned--silly war! All the good American boys. We charged the Fritzes. How they ran! But--there was a mistake. No artillery preparation. There ought to be crosses and medals going for that charge, for the boys--(Laughs.) Why, they're all dead. And me--I'm dying, in a ditch. Twenty years old. Done out of sixty years by--by the silly war. What's it for? Mother, what's it about? I'm ill a bit. I can't think what good it is. Slaughtering boys--all the nations' boys--honest, hard-working boys mostly. Junk. Fine chaps an hour ago. What's the good? I'm dying--for the flag. But--what's the good? It'll go on--wars. Again. Peace sometimes, but nothing gained. And all of us--dead. Cheated out of our lives. Wouldn't the world have done as well if this long ditch of good fellows had been let live? Mother?
The Boy's Dream of His Mother. (Seems to speak.) My very dearest--no. It takes this great burnt-offering to free the world. The world will be free. This is the crisis of humanity; you are bending the lever that lifts the race. Be glad, dearest life of the world, to be part of that glory. Think back to your school-days, to a sentence you learned. Lincoln spoke it. "These dead shall not have died in vain, and government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth."
The Boy. (Whispers.) I remember. It's good. "Shall not have died in vain"--"The people--shall not perish"--where's your hand, mother? It's taps for me. The lights are going out. Come with me--mother. (Dies.)
The scene it the same trench one hundred years later, in the year 2018. It is ten o'clock of a summer morning. Two French children have come to the trench to pick flowers. The little girl of seven is gentle and soft-hearted; her older brother is a man of nearly ten years, and feels his patriotism and his responsibilities.
Angelique. (The little French girl.) Here's where they grow, Jean-B'tiste.
Jean-Baptiste. (The little French boy.) I know. They bloom bigger blooms in the American ditch.
Angelique. (Climbs into the ditch and picks flowers busily.) Why do people call it the 'Merican ditch, Jean-B'tiste? What's 'Merican?
Jean-Baptiste. (Ripples laughter.) One's little sister doesn't know much! Never mind. One is so young--three years younger than I am. I'm ten, you know.
Angelique. Tiens, Jean-B'tiste. Not ten till next month.
Jean-Baptiste. Oh, but--but--next month!
Angelique. What's 'Merican?
Jean-Baptiste. Droll p'tite. Why, everybody in all France knows that name. Of American.
Angelique. (Unashamed.) Do they? What is it?
Jean-Baptiste. It's the people that live in the so large country across the ocean. They came over and saved all our lives, and France.
Angelique. (Surprised.) Did they save my life, Jean-B'tiste?
Jean-Baptiste. Little drole. You weren't born.
Angelique. Oh! Whose life did they then save? Maman's?
Jean-Baptiste. But no. She was not born either.
Angelique. Whose life, then--the grandfather's?
Jean-Baptiste. But--even he was not born. (Disconcerted by Angelique's direct tactics.) One sees they could not save the lives of people who were not here. But--they were brave--but yes--and friends to France. And they came across the ocean to fight for France. Big, strong young soldiers in brown uniforms--the grandfather told me about it yesterday. I know it all. His father told him, and he was here. In this field. (Jean-Baptiste looks about the meadow, where the wind blows flowers and wheat.) There was a large battle--a fight very immense. It was not like this then. It was digged over with ditches and the soldiers stood in the ditches and shot at the wicked Germans in the other ditches. Lots and lots of soldiers died.
Angelique. (Lips trembling.) Died--in ditches?
Jean-Baptiste. (Grimly.) Yes, it is true.
Angelique. (Breaks into sobs.) I can't bear you to tell me that. I can't bear the soldiers to--die--in ditches.
Jean-Baptiste. (Pats her shoulder.) I'm sorry I told you if it makes you cry. You are so little. But it was one hundred years ago. They're dead now.
Angelique. (Rubs her eyes with her dress and smiles.) Yes, they're quite dead now. So--tell me some more.
Jean-Baptiste. But I don't want to make you cry more, p'tite. You're so little.
Angelique. I'm not very little. I'm bigger than Anne-Marie Dupont, and she's eight.
Jean-Baptiste. But no. She's not eight till next month. She told me.
Angelique. Oh, well--next month. Me, I want to hear about the brave 'Mericans. Did they make this ditch to stand in and shoot the wicked Germans?
Jean-Baptiste. They didn't make it, but they fought the wicked Germans in a brave, wonderful charge, the bravest sort, the grandfather said. And they took the ditch away from the wicked Germans, and then--maybe you'll cry.
Angelique. I won't. I promise you I won't.
Jean-Baptiste. Then, when the ditch--only they called it a trench--was well full of American soldiers, the wicked Germans got a machine gun at the end of it and fired all the way along--the grandfather called it enfiladed--and killed every American in the whole long ditch.
Angelique. (Bursts into tears again; buries her face in her skirt.) I--I'm sorry I cry, but the 'Mericans were so brave and fought--for France--and it was cruel of the wicked Germans to--to shoot them.
Jean-Baptiste. The wicked Germans were always cruel. But the grandfather says it's quite right now, and as it should be, for they are now a small and weak nation, and scorned and watched by other nations, so that they shall never be strong again. For the grandfather says they are not such as can be trusted--no, never the wicked Germans. The world will not believe their word again. They speak not the truth. Once they nearly smashed the world, when they had power. So it is looked to by all nations that never again shall Germany be powerful. For they are sly, and cruel as wolves, and only intelligent to be wicked. That is what the grandfather says.
Angelique. Me, I'm sorry for the poor wicked Germans that they are so bad. It is not nice to be bad. One is punished.
Jean-Baptiste. (Sternly.) It is the truth. One is always punished. As long as the world lasts it will be a punishment to be a German. But as long as France lasts there will be a nation to love the name of America, one sees. For the Americans were generous and brave. They left their dear land and came and died for us, to keep us free in France from the wicked Germans.
Angelique. (Lip trembles.) I'm sorry--they died.
Jean-Baptiste. But, p'tite! That was one hundred years ago. It is necessary that they would have been dead by now in every case. It was more glorious to die fighting for freedom and France than just to die--fifty years later. Me, I'd enjoy very much to die fighting. But look! You pulled up the roots. And what is that thing hanging to the roots--not a rock?
Angelique. No, I think not a rock. (She takes the object in her hands and knocks dirt from it.) But what is it, Jean-B'tiste?
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