The rest is seen dimly, as through a mist. His voice is heard,
distinct and clear, but as from a great distance.
To Ralph Heard he writes from Camp Lee, Virginia:
"I am eating, sleeping, and drilling with physical enthusiasm," and
later, "Tell the fellows that the dust is gathering on my palette."
A letter to me in May tells of taking his pipe at the day's end and
strolling into the woods of the camp to be alone with the song of
birds and tints of sunset. Late in July came a letter from France
describing a march "between gleam of gold in the west and a rising
full moon in the east, ... aeroplanes in action overhead and
cannonading over the hills to the east." Then occurs this:
"I am little different from as you know me, even though now in a
machine gun company:--Curious irony.--"
And this:
"Continue your work.... Other victories are transient."
And this was his farewell:
"We have seen great visions and dreamed splendid dreams. And the faith
you have in me,--which I prize so desperately,--I have in you, no
matter where each of us may be headed. We will live the best we
can--that, through our friendship, is all we ask of each other."
* * * * *
On January 23, 1919, one of his brothers writes from Le Mans, France:
"St. Remis du Plain is the name of the little town where Fred's
company was billeted. It is perched on the top of a hill in the middle
of a vast plain and was visible for a long time as I headed towards
it. This was the trip I had planned long ago, and pictured a happy
meeting; however, it was decreed otherwise. Passing up the narrow
street I saw 'Headquarters, 136 M. G. Bn.' written on the door of an
old stone house. The orderly room was full of officers. I inquired for
Lieut. Rew, the one who had previously written to me, and introduced
myself as Fred's brother. The officer who was dictating stopped work,
came over and shook hands with me. The captain commanding the
battalion came from behind the table, greeted me and offered a word of
sympathy. Soon all the officers were grouped about me and I saw that
Fred was considered one of their number. The captain said, 'He was the
best sergeant I ever had.' They invited me to mess with them, and
Lieut. Rew said I was to bunk with him, 'for my men have cooties,' but
I saw this was all done so that they might have a chance to speak of
Fred. One of the sergeants told me that when the news came, the
officers were even more broken up about it than the men.
"I was introduced to the noncoms with whom Fred seems to have been a
favorite. In the evening, as we sat around an open fireplace, I asked
if Fred had had a 'buddy.' The sergeant with whom Fred used to sleep
said, 'No. He was everybody's friend.'
"As I was walking up to the kitchen, a private stepped out of the mess
line and came up to me saying he knew me through my resemblance to
Fred. Soon the mess line was demoralized and I was the center of a
lively mass all talking at once and I could easily see why the captain
recommended him so highly as a sergeant.--'He never said a harsh
word,'--'He was always cheerful and never kicked,'--'When we
complained about the feed or anything, he said it would be better
later.' They talked so long that at last the cook asked me if I would
not please eat so that they would eat and let him get through.
* * * * *
"The division left Camp Lee, June 21, 1918, and sailed from Newport
News on the Italian transport _Caserta_. It was a dirty boat, the feed
rotten, and the trip rough. Everybody was disgusted. Fred was about
the only one of the company who never missed a meal. A private told me
that he and Fred were standing at the rail in the bow of the ship one
night talking about a number of things. This fellow voiced the
sentiment of most of the company when he said he only wanted to make
one more ocean trip and that was in the reverse direction. Fred looked
far out across the water and remarked: 'I could stand a few more.'
"They landed at Brest on July 5 and entrained at once for Souville.
They used the French type of compartment cars where with ten men and
full equipment there wasn't much room to move about. Fred was in
charge of his compartment and, with his usual ingenuity, devised means
of disposing of the equipment to best advantage for their comfort. He
also carefully arranged the daily menu consisting of bread, corned
beef, tomatoes, beans, and jam. He did all this in such a serio-comic
way that the fellows are still laughing over the memories of the trip.
"On September 20 the division led the drive into the Argonne forest.
This is reputed to have been the hardest battle of the war in respect
to the Germans' shell fire and the suffering caused by the rainy
weather and lack of shelter. Through it all there was not a healthier
nor more cheerful man than Fred. Recognized by the commanding officer
as having 'the coolest head in the company and afraid of nothing' he
was made a sergeant after this battle over the heads of some old
National Guardsmen; but there was not a murmur--all were satisfied.
When they came out of the woods he helped the doctor with the wounded
(he seems to have helped everywhere, from the kitchen to the captain's
private office). After they had all been attended to, he asked the
doctor to look him over. He had received three flesh wounds in
shoulder and arm. He picked out the pieces of shrapnel himself and had
the doctor bandage him. After which he went about his work as usual.
"October 10 found the company in the St. Mihiel sector, and on October
22 it moved into Belgium. All this meant miles of weary hiking under a
full pack; but Fred remained the same cheerful fellow as ever. He
amused the whole company with his doings. He found an old hair-clipper
among some salvage and immediately opened a barber shop where
lieutenants as well as privates got their hair cut. Another thing that
I recognized as characteristic were the remarks pertaining to his
appetite. He never lost it. He was known to have 'eats' on his person
all the time. He had a special knack of hunting out farm houses,
engaging _madame_ in conversation, and coming away with bread, eggs,
or cheese in his knapsack. Occasionally he did some sketching and his
letters were a joy to the lieutenant who censored them because of the
excellent descriptions they contained....
"The company went over the top early in the morning of October 31.
Fred was wounded in the left side by a piece of high explosive shell
at about 5:30 A.M. It was before daylight and few knew he had been
hit. When they did hear it, they were far in advance and Fred had been
carried to Evacuation Hospital Number Five, at Staden, Belgium. He
died there on November 2. One of the boys who helped carry him to the
rear says that he was fully conscious despite the serious nature of
his wound, and tells of how he directed them what to do--how he told
them to leave him when the shells fell too fast (which they wouldn't
do)--of how they left him, quite himself, at the first-aid station....
"He was never referred to as a bully or even as a fighter--he was
spared the grewsome experience of hand-to-hand fighting, for from the
first the Germans were in full flight; but he was remembered for his
cheerfulness, his kindness toward others and especially for his lack
of harsh words. His favorite text from the Bible was that part of the
Sermon on the Mount known as the beatitudes, _and he often wondered
why ministers did not preach on it more_. _He constantly spoke of this
to the men._ (The italics are not in the original.)
"His fire has gone out, but he left a glow in the hearts of these men
which will never go out."
* * * * *
And now it is time that a few questions be asked, simple and direct.
It is due him.
Why is it that when he set himself to create he had to contend against
that dead-weight of indifference if not the active hostility of
organized society recorded in these pages; but when he was
commandeered to destroy, that society clothed him, fed him, sheltered
him, trained him, transported him, paid him, nursed him, and buried
him?
It is well that we should know what has been squandered. He that might
have ennobled generations of men with his great visions and his
splendid dreams is mingling his clay with the soil of Belgium. He had
the seeds of genius. Capitalism made him a machine gunner.
Is this the best we can find for our artists to do? Is it any wonder
that the creative minds of to-day are finding themselves driven to
social revolution as their art-form?
In the brown-owl hut beside the Merrimac that summer day in 1917 he
remarked in a tone of indulgent irony:
"The 'military experts' have found a nice, polite term for men killed
or too badly maimed to fight any more."
"What is it?" I asked.
"'Wastage.'"
[Music:--Beethoven: Finale of The Ninth Symphony.]
X