THE WAR-MOTHER
I saw my old train friend again. It was the day that one of our
regiments went away, and we were all at the station to bid the boys
good-bye.
The empty coaches stood on a siding, and the stream of khaki-clad men
wound across the common from the Fair buildings, which were then used
as a military camp. The men were heavily loaded with all their
equipment, but cheerful as ever. The long-looked-for order to go
forward had come at last!
Men in uniform look much the same, but the women who came with them
and stood by them were from every station in life. There were two
Ukrainian women, with colored shawls on their heads, who said good-bye
to two of the best-looking boys in the regiment, their sons. It is no
new thing for the Ukrainian people to fight for liberty! There were
heavily veiled women, who alighted from their motors and silently
watched the coaches filling with soldiers. Every word had been said,
every farewell spoken; they were not the sort who say tempestuous
good-byes, but their silence was like the silence of the open grave.
There were many sad-faced women, wheeling go-carts, with children
holding to their skirts crying loudly for "Daddy." There were tired,
untidy women, overrun by circumstances, with that look about them
which the Scotch call "through-other." There were many brave little
boys and girls standing by their mothers, trying hard not to cry;
there were many babies held up to the car-window to kiss a big brother
or a father; there were the groups of chattering young people, with
their boxes of candy and incessant fun; there were brides of a day,
with their white-fox furs and new suits, and the great new sorrow in
their eyes.
One fine-looking young giant made his way toward the train without
speaking to any one, passing where a woman held her husband's hands,
crying hysterically--we were trying to persuade her to let him go,
for the conductor had given the first warning.
"I have no one to cry over me, thank God!" he said, "and I think I am
the best off." But the bitterness in his tone belied his words.
"Then maybe I could pretend that you are my boy," said a woman's voice
behind me, which sounded familiar; "you see I have no boy--now, and
nobody to write to--and I just came down to-night to see if I could
find one. I want to have some one belonging to me--even if they are
going away!"
The young man laid down his bag and took her hand awkwardly. "I sure
would be glad to oblige you," he said, "only I guess you could get one
that was lots nicer. I am just a sort of a bo-hunk from the North
Country."
"You'll do me," said the old lady, whom I recognized at once as my
former train companion,--"you'll do me fine. Tell me your name and
number, and I'll be your war-mother,--here's my card, I have it all
ready,--I knew I'd get some one. Now, remember, I am your Next of Kin.
Give in my name and I'll get the cable when you get the D.S.O., and
I'll write to you every week and send you things. I just can't keep
from sending parcels."
"Gee! This is sudden!" said the boy, laughing; "but it's nice!"
"I lost my boys just as suddenly as this," she said. "Billy and Tom
went out together--they were killed at Saint-Éloi, but Frank came
through it all to Vimy Ridge. Then the message came ... sudden too.
One day I had him--then I lost him! Why shouldn't nice things come
suddenly too--just like this!"
"You sure can have me--mother," the big fellow said.
The conductor was giving the last call. Then the boy took her in his
arms and kissed her withered cheek, which took on a happy glow that
made us all look the other way.
She and I stood together and watched the grinding wheels as they began
to move. The spirit of youth, the indomitable, imperishable spirit of
youth was in her eyes, and glowed in her withered face as she murmured
happily,--
"I am one of the Next of Kin ... again, and my new boy is on that
train."
We stood together until the train had gone from our sight.
"Let me see," I said, "how many chickens did you tell me that Biddy
hen of yours had when the winter came?"
"Twenty-two," she laughed.
"Well," I said, "it's early yet."
"I just can't help it," she said seriously; "I have to be in it! After
I got the word about my last boy, it seemed for a few days that I had
come to the end of everything. I slept and slept and slept, just like
you do when you've had company at your house,--the very nicest
company, and they go away!--and you're so lonely and idle, and tired,
too, for you've been having such a good time you did not notice that
you were getting near the edge. That's how I felt; but after a week I
wanted to be working at something. I thought maybe the Lord had left
my hands quite free so I could help some one else.... You have played
croquet, haven't you? You know how the first person who gets out has
the privilege of coming back a 'rover,' and giving a hand to any one.
That's what I felt; I was a 'rover,' and you'd be surprised at all I
have found to do. There are so many soldiers' wives with children who
never get downtown to shop or see a play, without their children. I
have lots to do in that line, and it keeps me from thinking.
"I want you to come with me now," she went on, "to see a woman who has
something wrong with her that I can't find out. She has a sore
thought. Her man has been missing since September, and is now
officially reported killed. But there's something else bothering her."
"How do you know?" I asked.
She turned quickly toward me and said, "Have you any children?"
"Five," I said.
"Oh, well, then, you'll understand. Can't you tell by a child's cry
whether it is hungry, or hurt, or just mad?"
"I can, I think," I said.
"Well, that's how I know. She's in deep grief over her husband, but
there's more than that. Her eyes have a hurt look that I wish I could
get out of them. You'll see it for yourself, and maybe we can get her
to tell us. I just found her by accident last week--or at least, I
found her; nothing happens by accident!"
We found her in a little faded green house, whose veranda was broken
through in many places. Scared-looking, dark-eyed children darted
shyly through the open door as we approached. In the darkened front
room she received us, and, without any surprise, pleasure, or
resentment in her voice, asked us to sit down. As our eyes became
accustomed to the gloom, we wondered more and more why the sunshine
was excluded, for there was no carpet to fade, nor any furniture which
would have been injured. The most conspicuous object in the room was
the framed family group taken just before "her man" went away. He was
a handsome young fellow in his tidy uniform, and the woman beside him
had such a merry face that I should never have known her for the sad
and faded person who had met us at the door. In the picture she was
smiling, happy, resolute; now her face was limp and frazzled, and had
an indefinable challenge in it which baffled me. My old friend was
right--there was a sore thought there!
The bright black eyes of the handsome soldier fascinated me; he was so
much alive; so fearless; so confident, so brave,--so much needed by
these little ones who clustered around his knee. Again, as I looked
upon this picture, the horrors of war rolled over my helpless heart.
My old friend was trying hard to engage the woman in conversation, but
her manner was abstracted and strange. I noticed her clothes were all
black, even the flannel bandage around her throat--she was recovering
from an attack of quinsy--was black too; and as if in answer to my
thoughts, she said:--
"It was red--but I dyed it--I couldn't bear to have it red--it
bothered me. That's why I keep the blinds down too--the sun hurts
me--it has no right to shine--just the same as if nothing had
happened." Her voice quivered with passion.
"Have you any neighbors, Mrs. C----?" I asked; for her manner made me
uneasy--she had been too much alone.
"Neighbors!" she stormed,--"neighbors! I haven't any, and I do not
want them: they would only lie about me--the way they lied about
Fred!"
"Surely nobody ever lied about Fred," I said,--"this fine, brave
fellow."
"He does look brave, doesn't he?" she cried. "You are a stranger, but
you can see it, can't you? You wouldn't think he was a coward, would
you?"
"I would stake everything on his bravery!" I said honestly, looking at
the picture.
She came over and squeezed my hand.
"It was a wicked lie--all a lie!" she said bitterly.
"Tell us all about it," I said; "I am sure there has been a mistake."
She went quickly out of the room, and my old friend and I stared at
each other without speaking. In a few minutes she came back with a
"paper" in her hand, and, handing it to me, she said, "Read that and
you'll see what they say!"
I read the announcement which stated that her husband had been missing
since September 29, and was now believed to have been killed. "This is
just what is sent to every one--" I began, but she interrupted me.
"Look here!" she cried, leaning over my shoulder and pointing to the
two words "marginally noted"--"What does that mean?"
I read it over again:--
"We regret to inform you that the soldier marginally noted, who has
been declared missing since September 29, is now believed to have been
killed!"
"There!" she cried, "can't you see?" pointing again to the two words.
"Don't you see what that means?--margin means the edge--and that means
that Fred was noted for being always on the edge of the army, trying
to escape, I suppose. But that's a lie, for Fred was not that kind, I
tell you--he was no coward!"
I saw where the trouble lay, and tried to explain. She would not
listen.
"Oh, but I looked in the dictionary and I know: 'margin' means 'the
edge,' and they are trying to say that Fred was always edging
off--you see--noted for being on the edge, that's what they say."
We reasoned, we argued, we explained, but the poor little lonely soul
was obsessed with the idea that a deep insult had been put upon her
man's memory.
Then my old friend had an idea. She opened her purse and brought out
the notice which she had received of the death of her last boy.
We put the two notices side by side, and told her that these were
printed by the thousands, and every one got the same. Just the name
had to be filled in.
Then she saw it!
"Oh!" she cried, "I am so glad you showed me this, for I have been so
bitter. I hated every one; it sounded so hard and cold and
horrible--as if nobody cared. It was harder than losing Fred to have
him so insulted. But now I see it all!"
"Isn't it too bad," said the old lady, as we walked home together,
"that they do not have these things managed by women? Women would
have sense enough to remember that these notices go to many classes of
people--and would go a bit slow on the high-sounding phrases: they
would say, 'The soldier whose name appears on the margin of this
letter,' instead of 'The soldier who is marginally noted'; it might
not be so concise, but it is a heap plainer. A few sentences of
sympathy, too, and appreciation, written in by hand, would be a
comfort. I tell you at a time like this we want something human, like
the little girl who was put to bed in the dark and told that the
angels would keep her company. She said she didn't want angels--she
wanted something with a skin face!--So do we all! We are panicky and
touchy, like a child that has been up too late the night before, and
we have to be carefully handled. All the pores of our hearts are open
and it is easy to get a chill!"
As we rode home in the car she told me about the letter which had come
that day from her last boy:--
"It seemed queer to look at this letter and know that I would never
get another one from the boys. Letters from the boys have been a big
thing to me for many years. Billy and Tom were away from me for a long
time before the war, and they never failed to write. Frank was never
away from me until he went over, and he was not much of a
letter-writer,--just a few sentences! 'Hello, mother, how are you? I'm
O.K. Hope you are the same. Sleeping well, and eating everything I can
lay my hands on. The box came; it was sure a good one. Come again.
So-long!' That was the style of Frank's letter. 'I don't want this
poor censor to be boring his eyes out trying to find state secrets in
my letters,' he said another time, apologizing for the shortness of
it. 'There are lots of things that I would like to tell you, but I
guess they will keep until I get home--I always could talk better than
write.' ... But this letter is different. He seemed to know that he
was going--west, as they say, and he wrote so seriously; all the
boyishness had gone from him, and he seemed to be old, much older than
I am. These boys of ours are all older than we are now,--they have
seen so much of life's sadness--they have got above it; they see so
many of their companions go over that they get a glimpse of the other
shore. They are like very old people who cannot grieve the way younger
people can at leaving this life."
Then I read the boy's letter.
"Dear Mother," it ran, "We are out resting now, but going in to-morrow
to tackle the biggest thing that we have pulled off yet. You'll hear
about it, I guess. Certainly you will if we are successful. I hope
that this letter will go safely, for I want you to know just how I
feel, and that everything is fine with me. I used to be scared stiff
that I would be scared, but I haven't been--there seems to be
something that stands by you and keeps your heart up, and with death
all around you, you see it is not so terrible. I have seen so many of
the boys pass out, and they don't mind it. They fight like wild-cats
while they can, but when their turn comes they go easy. The awful roar
of the guns does it. The silent tomb had a horrible sound to me when I
was at home, but it sounds like a welcome now. Anyway, mother,
whatever happens you must not worry. Everything is all right when you
get right up to it--even death. I just wish I could see you, and make
you understand how light-hearted I feel. I never felt better; my only
trouble is that you will be worried about me, but just remember that
everything is fine, and that I love you.
"FRANK."
AT THE LAST!
O God, who hears the smallest cry
That ever rose from human soul,
Be near my mother when she reads
My name upon the Honor Roll;
And when she sees it written there,
Dear Lord, stand to, behind her chair!
Or, if it be Thy sacred will
That I may go and stroke her hand,
Just let me say, "I'm living still!
And in a brighter, better land."
One word from me will cheer her so,
O Lord, if you will let me go!
I know her eyes with tears will blind,
I think I hear her choking cry,
When in the list my name she'll find--
Oh, let me--let me--let me try
To somehow make her understand
That it is not so hard to die!
She's thinking of the thirst and pain;
She's thinking of the saddest things;
She does not know an angel came
And led me to the water-springs,
She does not know the quiet peace
That fell upon my heart like rain,
When something sounded my release,
And something eased the scorching pain.
She does not know, I gladly went
And am with Death, content, content.
I want to say I played the game--
I played the game right to the end--
I did not shrink at shot or flame,
But when at last the good old friend,
That some call Death, came beckoning me,
I went with him, quite willingly!
Just let me tell her--let her know--
It really was not hard to go!