So now my story is told and as I close the pages of the book I pause
to think and wonder if ever again I shall see France. I wonder if
again I shall walk along the quays of the River Seine or up the
sloping tree-lined Champs Elysées, or wander with friends around to
the Café de la Paix, or if again I shall pass through the desolate
villages at the front and hear the shrieking shells, the aeroplanes
overhead singing in the night “Guerre, guerre, guerre,” their
monotonous song of death. I wonder if again I shall see those noble,
weary people of our Sister Country fighting bravely against the Iron
Hand; whether I shall go back to see our own flag being carried on to
final victory; and rejoice that America at last has ridden into the
field full armed, the Savior of France, as was once the Maid of
Orleans.
I wonder if I shall resist or follow that invisible finger beckoning
to me――whether I shall listen to that voice whispering and saying to
me, “Come back”?
I wonder if again I shall see the towers of Rheims Cathedral or stand
upon the hill beside the resting place of Norton?
I wonder if again some day I shall walk into the peaceful town of
Aillianville and sit down by the crackling fire and visit my friend
Tourgant, the boar hunter, and his wife; whether I shall some evening
step in the “Cheval Blanc” and to Madame Julie and the patron, say, as
I have said before: “Bon soir, Madame, bon soir, Monsieur”; whether
sometime I shall sit with Marie and her husband, who will wear the
Croix de Guerre upon his breast, and with them talk about the war. I
wonder if I shall again go in the “Lion d’Or,” and, in happy memory,
hear the music as I did before, and if perhaps I shall see again my
friends of Section One in France?
I wonder if I shall answer that voice which whispers to me as I walk
along the crowded streets, which whispers as I lie awake at night,
which whispers in my sleep and says to me――“Come back.”