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JOY IN THE MORNING
by
MARY RAYMOND SHIPMAN ANDREWS
New York
Charles Scribner's Sons
1919
[Illustration: He pinned the thing men die for on the shabby coat of
the guide. [_Page_ 135]]
* * * * * *
By MARY R.S. ANDREWS
JOY IN THE MORNING
THE ETERNAL FEMININE
AUGUST FIRST
THE ETERNAL MASCULINE
THE MILITANTS
BOB AND THE GUIDES
CROSSES OF WAR
HER COUNTRY
OLD GLORY
THE COUNSEL ASSIGNED
THE COURAGE OF THE COMMONPLACE
THE LIFTED BANDAGE
THE PERFECT TRIBUTE
Charles Scribner's Sons
* * * * * *
DEDICATION
To the two stars of a service flag, to a brother and a son who served in
France, this book is dedicated. No book, to my thinking, were one
Shakespere and Isaiah rolled together, might fittingly answer the honor
which they, with four million more American soldiers, have brought to
their own. So that the stories march out very proudly, headed by the
names of
CHAPLAIN HERBERT SHIPMAN
AND
CAPTAIN PAUL SHIPMAN ANDREWS
NOTE
Now that the tide of Khaki has set toward our shores instead of away;
now that the streets are filled with splendid boys with gold chevrons of
foreign service or no less honorable silver chevrons of service here;
now that the dear lads who sleep in France know that the "torch was
caught" from their hands, and that faith with them was kept; now
that--thank God, who, after all, rules--the war is over, there is an old
word close to the thought of the nation. "Heaviness may endure for a
night, but joy cometh in the morning." A whole country is so thinking.
For possibly ten centuries the Great War will be a background for
fiction. To us, who have lived those years, any tale of them is a
personal affair. Every-day women and men whom one meets in the street
may well say to us: "My boy was in the Argonne," or: "My brother fought
at St. Mihiel." Over and over, unphrased, our minds echo lines of that
verse found in the pocket of the soldier dead at Gallipoli:
"_We_ saw the powers of darkness put to flight,
_We_ saw the morning break."
Crushed and glorified beyond all generations of the planet, war stories
prick this generation like family records. It is from us of to-day that
the load is lifted. We have weathered the heaviness of the night; to us
"Joy cometh in the morning."
M.R.S.A.
CONTENTS
I. The Ditch
II. Her Country Too
III. The Swallow
IV. Only One of Them
V. The V.C.
VI. He That Loseth His Life Shall Find It
VII. The Silver Stirrup
VIII. The Russian
IX. Robina's Doll
X. Dundonald's Destroyer
THE DITCH
PERSONS
THE BOY an American soldier
THE BOY'S DREAM OF HIS MOTHER
ANGÉLIQUE }
} French children
JEAN-BAPTISTE }
THE TEACHER
THE ONE SCHOOLGIRL WITH IMAGINATION
THE THREE SCHOOLGIRLS WITHOUT IMAGINATION
HE
SHE
THE AMERICAN GENERAL
THE ENGLISH STATESMAN
The Time.--A summer day in 1918 and a summer day in 2018
FIRST ACT
_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_.)
SECOND ACT
_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_.
_Angélique_. (_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.
_Angélique_. (_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.
_Angélique. Tiens_, Jean-B'tiste. Not ten till next month.
Jean-Baptiste. Oh, but--but--next month!
_Angélique_. What's 'Merican?
_Jean-Baptiste_. Droll _p'tite_. Why, everybody in all France knows that
name. Of American.
_Angélique_. (_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.
_Angélique_. (_Surprised_.) Did they save my life, Jean-B'tiste?
_Jean-Baptiste_. Little _drôle_. You weren't born.
_Angélique_. Oh! Whose life did they then save? Maman's?
_Jean-Baptiste_. But no. She was not born either.
_Angélique_. Whose life, then--the grandfather's?
_Jean-Baptiste_. But--even he was not born. (_Disconcerted by
Angélique'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.
_Angélique_. (_Lips trembling_.) Died--in ditches?
_Jean-Baptiste_. (_Grimly._) Yes, it is true.
_Angélique_. (_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.
_Angélique_. (_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.
_Angélique._ 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.
_Angélique_. 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.
_Angélique_. 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.
_Angélique_. (_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.
_Angélique_. 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.
_Angélique_. (_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?
_Angélique_. 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?
_Jean-Baptiste_. It's--but never mind. I can't always know everything,
don't you see, Angélique? It's just something of one of the Americans
who died in the ditch. One is always finding something in these old
battle-fields.
_Angélique_. (_Rubs the object with her dress. Takes a handful of sand
and rubs it on the object. Spits on it and rubs the sand_.) _V'là_,
Jean-B'tiste--it shines.
_Jean-Baptiste_. (_Loftily_.) Yes. It is nothing, that. One finds such
things.
_Angélique._ (_Rubbing more_.) And there are letters on it.
_Jean-Baptiste_. Yes. It is nothing, that. One has flowers _en masse_
now, and it is time to go home. Come then, _p'tite_, drop the dirty bit
of brass and pick up your pretty flowers. _Tiens!_ Give me your hand.
I'll pull you up the side of the ditch. (_Jean-Baptiste turns as they
start_.) I forgot the thing which the grandfather told me I must do
always. (_He stands at attention_.) _Au revoir_, brave Americans. One
salutes your immortal glory. (_Exit Jean-Baptiste and Angélique_.)
THIRD ACT
_The scene is the same trench in the year 2018. It is eleven o'clock of
the same summer morning. Four American schoolgirls, of from fifteen to
seventeen years, have been brought to see the trench, a relic of the
Great War, in charge of their teacher. The teacher, a worn and elderly
person, has imagination, and is stirred, as far as her tired nerves may
be, by the heroic story of the old ditch. One of the schoolgirls also
has imagination and is also stirred. The other three are "young
barbarians at play." Two out of five is possibly a large proportion to
be blessed with imagination, but the American race has improved in a
hundred years_.
_Teacher_. This, girls, is an important bit of our sight-seeing. It is
the last of the old trenches of the Great War to remain intact in all
northern France. It was left untouched out of the reverence of the
people of the country for one hundred Americans of the Blank_th_
Regiment, who died here--in this old ditch. The regiment had charged too
soon, by a mistaken order, across what was called No-Man's Land, from
their own front trench, about (_consults guide-book_)--about thirty-five
yards away--that would be near where you see the red poppies so thick in
the wheat. They took the trench from the Germans, and were then wiped
out partly by artillery fire, partly by a German machine gun which was
placed, disguised, at the end of the trench and enfiladed the entire
length. Three-quarters of the regiment, over two thousand men, were
killed in this battle. Since then the regiment has been known as the
"Charging Blank_th_."
_First Schoolgirl_. Wouldn't those poppies be lovely on a yellow hat?
_Second Schoolgirl_. Ssh! The Eye is on you. How awful, Miss Hadley! And
were they all killed? Quite a tragedy!
_Third Schoolgirl_. Not a yellow hat! Stupid! A corn-colored one--just
the shade of the grain with the sun on it. Wouldn't it be lovely! When
we get back to Paris--
_Fourth Schoolgirl (the one with imagination_). You idiots! You poor
kittens!
_First Schoolgirl_. If we ever do get back to Paris!
_Teacher_. (_Wearily_.) Please pay attention. This is one of the world's
most sacred spots. It is the scene of a great heroism. It is the place
where many of our fellow countrymen laid down their lives. How can you
stand on this solemn ground and chatter about hats?
_Third Schoolgirl_. Well, you see, Miss Hadley, we're fed up with solemn
grounds. You can't expect us to go into raptures at this stage over an
old ditch. And, to be serious, wouldn't some of those field flowers make
a lovely combination for hats? With the French touch, don't you know?
You'd be darling in one--so _ingénue!_
_Second Schoolgirl_. Ssh! She'll kill you. (_Three girls turn their
backs and stifle a giggle_.)
_Teacher_. Girls, you may be past your youth yourselves one day.
_First Schoolgirl_. (_Airily._) But we're well preserved so far, Miss
Hadley.
_Fourth Schoolgirl_. (_Has wandered away a few yards. She bends and
picks a flower from the ditch. She speaks to herself_.) The flag
floated here. There were shells bursting and guns thundering and groans
and blood--here. American boys were dying where I stand safe. That's
what they did. They made me safe. They kept America free. They made the
"world safe for freedom," (_She bends and speaks into the ditch_.) Boy,
you who lay just there in suffering and gave your good life away that
long-ago summer day--thank you. You died for us. America remembers.
Because of you there will be no more wars, and girls such as we are may
wander across battle-fields, and nations are happy and well governed,
and kings and masters are gone. You did that, you boys. You lost fifty
years of life, but you gained our love forever. Your deaths were not in
rain. Good-by, dear, dead boys.
_Teacher_. (_Calls_). Child, come! We must catch the train.
FOURTH ACT
_The scene is the same trench in the year 2018. It is three o'clock of
the afternoon, of the same summer day. A newly married couple have come
to see the trench. He is journeying as to a shrine; she has allowed
impersonal interests, such as history, to lapse under the influence of
love and a trousseau. She is, however, amenable to patriotism, and, her
husband applying the match, she takes fire--she also, from the story of
the trench_.
_He_. This must be the place.
_She_. It is nothing but a ditch filled with flowers.
_He_. The old trench. (_Takes off his hat_.)
_She_. Was it--it was--in the Great War?
_He_. My dear!
_She_. You're horrified. But I really--don't know.
_He_. Don't know? You must.
_She_. You've gone and married a person who hasn't a glimmer of history.
What will you do about it?
_He_. I'll be brave and stick to my bargain. Do you mean that you've
forgotten the charge of the Blank_th_ Americans against the Prussian
Guard? The charge that practically ended the war?
_She_. Ended the war? How could one charge end the war?
_He_. There was fighting after. But the last critical battle was here
(_looks about_) in these meadows, and for miles along. And it was just
here that the Blank_th_ United States Regiment made its historic dash.
In that ditch--filled with flowers--a hundred of our lads were mown down
in three minutes. About two thousand more followed them to death.
_She_. Oh--I do know. It was _that_ charge. I learned about it in
school; it thrilled me always.
_He_. Certainly. Every American child knows the story. I memorized the
list of the one hundred soldiers' names of my own free will when I was
ten. I can say them now. "Arnold--Ashe--Bennett--Emmet--Dragmore--"
_She_. Don't say the rest, Ted--tell me about it as it happened. (_She
slips her hand into his_.) We two, standing here young and happy,
looking forward to a, lifetime together, will do honor, that way, to
those soldiers who gave up their happy youth and their lives for
America.
_He_. (_Puts his arm around her_.) We will. We'll make a little memorial
service and I'll preach a sermon about how gloriously they fell and how,
unknowingly, they won the war--and so much more!
_She_. Tell me.
_He_. It was a hundred years ago about now--summer. A critical battle
raged along a stretch of many miles. About the centre of the
line--here--the Prussian Imperial Guards, the crack soldiers of the
German army, held the first trench--this ditch. American forces faced
them, but in weeks of fighting had not been able to make much
impression. Then, on a day, the order came down the lines that the
Blank_th_ United States Regiment, opposed to the Guard, was to charge
and take the German front trench. Of course the artillery was to prepare
for their charge as usual, but there was some mistake. There was no
curtain of fire before them, no artillery preparation to help them. And
the order to charge came. So, right into the German guns, in the face of
those terrible Prussian Guards, our lads went "over the top" with a
great shout, and poured like a flame, like a catapult, across the space
between them--No-Man's Land, they called it then--it was only
thirty-five yards--to the German trench. So fast they rushed, and so
unexpected was their coming, with no curtain of artillery to shield
them, that the Germans were for a moment taken aback. Not a shot was
fired for a space of time almost long enough to let the Americans reach
the trench, and then the rifles broke out and the brown uniforms fell
like leaves in autumn. But not all. They rushed on pell-mell, cutting
wire, pouring irresistibly into the German trench. And the Guards, such
as were not mown down, lost courage at the astounding impetus of the
dash, and scrambled and ran from their trench. They took it--our boys
took that trench--this old ditch. But then the big German guns opened a
fire like hail and a machine gun at the end--down there it must have
been--enfiladed the trench, and every man in it was killed. But the
charge ended the war. Other Americans, mad with the glory of it, poured
in a sea after their comrades and held the trench, and poured on and on,
and wiped out that day the Prussian Guard. The German morale was broken
from then; within four months the war was over.
_She_. (_Turns and hides her face on his shoulder and shakes with
sobs_.) I'm not--crying for sorrow--for them. I'm crying--for the glory
of it. Because--I'm so proud and glad--that it's too much for me. To
belong to such a nation--to such men. I'm crying for knowing, it was my
nation--my men. And America is--the same today. I know it. If she needed
you today, Ted, you would fight like that. You would go over the top
with the charging Blank_th_, with a shout, if the order came--wouldn't
you, my own man?
_He_. (_Looking into the old ditch with his head bent reverently_.) I
hope so.
_She_. And I hope I would send you with all my heart. Death like that is
more than life.
_He_. I've made you cry.
_She_. Not you. What they did--those boys.
_He_. It's fitting that Americans should come here, as they do come, as
to a Mecca, a holy place. For it was here that America was saved. That's
what they did, the boys who made that charge. They saved America from
the most savage and barbarous enemy of all time. As sure as France and
England were at the end of their rope--and they were--so surely Germany,
the victor, would have invaded America, and Belgium would have happened
in our country. A hundred years wouldn't have been enough to free us
again, if that had happened. You and I, dearest, owe it to those
soldiers that we are here together, free, prosperous citizens of an ever
greater country.
_She_. (_Drops on her knees by the ditch_.) It's a shrine. Men of my
land, I own my debt. I thank you for all I have and am. God bless you in
your heaven. (_Silence_.)
_He_. (_Tears in his eyes. His arm around her neck as he bends to her_.)
You'll not forget the story of the Charging Blank_th_?
_She_. Never again. In my life. (_Rising_.) I think their spirits must
be here often. Perhaps they're happy when Americans are here. It's a
holy place, as you said. Come away now. I love to leave it in sunshine
and flowers with the dear ghosts of the boys. (_Exit He and She_.)
FIFTH ACT
_The scene it the same trench in the year 2018. It is five o'clock of
the same summer afternoon. An officer of the American Army and an
English cabinet member come, together, to visit the old trench. The
American has a particular reason for his interest; the Englishman
accompanies the distinguished American. The two review the story of the
trench and speak of other things connected, and it is hoped that they
set forth the far-reaching work of the soldiers who died, not realizing
their work, in the great fight of the Charging Blank_th.
_Englishman_. It's a peaceful scene.
_American_. (_Advances to the side of the ditch. Looks down. Takes off
his cap_.) I came across the ocean to see it. (_He looks over the
fields_.) It's quiet.
_Englishman_. The trenches were filled in all over the invaded territory
within twenty-five years after the war. Except a very few kept as a
manner of monument. Object-lessons, don't you know, in what the thing
meant. Even those are getting obliterated. They say this is quite the
best specimen in all France.
_American_. It doesn't look warlike. What a lot of flowers!
_Englishman_. Yes. The folk about here have a tradition, don't you know,
that poppies mark the places where blood flowed most.
_American_. Ah! (_Gazes into the ditch_.) Poppies there. A hundred of
our soldiers died at once down there. Mere lads mostly. Their names and
ages are on a tablet in the capitol at Washington, and underneath is a
sentence from Lincoln's Gettysburg speech: "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."
_Englishman_. Those are undying words.
_American_. And undying names--the lads' names.
_Englishman_. What they and the other Americans did can never die. Not
while the planet endures. No nation at that time realized how vital was
your country's entrance into the war. Three months later it would have
been too late. Your young, untried forces lifted worn-out France and
England and swept us to-victory. It was America's victory at the last.
It is our glory to confess that, for from then on America has been our
kin.
_American_. (_Smiles_.) England is our well-beloved elder sister for all
time now.
_Englishman_. The soldiers who died there (_gestures to the ditch_) and
their like did that also. They tied the nations together with a bond of
common gratitude, common suffering, common glory.
_American_. You say well that there was common gratitude. England and
France had fought our battle for three years at the time we entered the
war. We had nestled behind the English fleet. Those grim gray ships of
yours stood between us and the barbarians very literally.
_Englishman_. Without doubt Germany would have been happy to invade the
only country on earth rich enough to pay her war debt. And you were
astonishingly open to invasion. It is one of the historical facts that a
student of history of this twenty-first century finds difficult to
realize.
_American_. The Great War made revolutionary changes. That condition of
unpreparedness was one. That there will never be another war is the
belief of all governments. But if all governments should be mistaken,
not again would my country, or yours, be caught unprepared. A general
staff built of soldiers and free of civilians hampering is one advantage
we have drawn from our ordeal of 1917.
_Englishman_. Your army is magnificently efficient.
_American_. And yours. Heaven grant neither may ever be needed! Our
military efficiency is the pride of an unmilitary nation. One Congress,
since the Great War and its lessons, has vied with another to keep our
high place.
_Englishman_. Ah! Your Congress. That has changed since the old
days--since La Follette.
_American_. The name is a shame and a warning to us. Our children are
taught to remember it so. The "little group of wilful men," the eleven
who came near to shipwrecking the country, were equally bad, perhaps,
but they are forgotten. La Follette stands for them and bears the curses
of his countrymen, which they all earned.
_Englishman_. Their ignominy served America; it roused the country to
clean its Augean stables.
_American_. The war purified with fire the legislative soul.
_Englishman_. Exactly. Men are human still, certainly, yet genuine
patriotism appears to be a _sine qua non_ now, where bombast answered in
the old day. Corruption is no longer accepted. Public men then were
surprisingly simple, surprisingly cheap and limited in their methods.
There were two rules for public and private life. It was thought
quixotic, I gather from studying the documents of the time, to expect
anything different. And how easily the change came!
_American_. The nation rose and demanded honesty, and honesty was there.
The enormous majority of decent people woke from a discontented apathy
and took charge. Men sprang into place naturally and served the nation.
The old log-rolling, brainless, greedy public officials were thrown
into the junk-heap. As if by magic the stress of the war wrung out the
rinsings and the scourings and left the fabric clean.
_Englishman_. The stress of the war affected more than internal
politics. You and I, General, are used to a standard of conduct between
responsible nations as high as that taken for granted between
responsible persons. But, if one considers, that was far from the case a
hundred years ago. It was in 1914, that von Bethmann-Hollweg spoke of "a
scrap of paper."
_American_. Ah--Germans!
_Englishman_. Certainly one does not expect honor or sincerity from
German psychology. Even the little Teutonic Republic of to-day is
tricky, scheming always to get a foothold for power, a beginning for the
army they will never again be allowed to have. Even after the Kaiser and
the Crown Prince and the other rascals were punished they tried to cheat
us, if you remember. Yet it is not that which I had in mind. The point I
was making was that today it would be out of drawing for a government
even of charlatans, like the Prussians, to advance the sort of claims
which they did. In commonplace words, it was expected then that
governments, as against each other, would be self-seeking. To-day
decency demands that they should be, as men must be, unselfish.
_America_. (_Musingly_.) It's odd how long it took the
world--governments--human beings--to find the truth of the very old
phrase that "he who findeth his life must lose it."
_Englishman_. The simple fact of that phrase before the Great War was
not commonly grasped. People thought it purely religious and reserved
for saints and church services. As a working hypothesis it was not
generally known. The every-day ideals of our generation, the friendships
and brotherhoods of nations as we know them would have been thought
Utopian.
_American_. Utopian? Perhaps our civilization is better than Utopian.
The race has grown with a bound since we all went through hell together.
How far the civilization of 1914 stood above that of 1614! The
difference between galley-slaves and able-bodied seamen, of your and
our navy! Greater yet than the change in that three hundred years is the
change in the last one hundred. I look at it with a soldier's somewhat
direct view. Humanity went helpless and alone into a fiery furnace and
came through holding on to God's hand. We have clung closely to that
powerful grasp since.
_Englishman_. Certainly the race has emerged from an epoch of intellect
to an epoch of spirituality--which comprehends and extends intellect.
There have never been inventions such as those of our era. And the
inventors have been, as it were, men inspired. Something beyond
themselves has worked through them for the world. A force like that was
known only sporadically before our time.
_American_. (_Looks into old ditch_.) It would be strange to the lads
who charged through horror across this flowery field to hear our talk
and to know that to them and their deeds we owe the happiness and the
greatness of the world we now live in.
_Englishman_. Their short, Homeric episode of life admitted few
generalizations, I fancy. To be ready and strong and brave--there was
scant time for more than that in those strenuous days. Yet under that
simple formula lay a sea of patriotism and self-sacrifice, from which
sprang their soldiers' force. "Greater love hath no man than this, that
a man lay down his life for his friends." It was their love--love of
country, of humanity, of freedom--which silenced in the end the great
engine of evil--Prussianism. The motive power of life is proved, through
those dead soldiers, to be not hate, as the Prussians taught, but love.
_American_. Do you see something shining among the flowers at the bottom
of the ditch?
_Englishman_. Why, yes. Is it--a leaf which catches the light?
_American_. (_Stepping down_.) I'll see. (_He picks up a metal
identification disk worn by a soldier. Angélique has rubbed it so that
the letters may mostly be read_.) This is rather wonderful. (_He reads
aloud_.) "R.V.H. Randolph--Blank_th_ Regiment--U.S." I can't make out
the rest.
_Englishman_. (_Takes the disk_.) Extraordinary! The name and regiment
are plain. The identification disk, evidently, of a soldier who died in
the trench here. Your own man, General.
_American_. (_Much stirred_.) And--my own regiment. Two years ago I was
the colonel of "The Charging Blank_th_."
HER COUNTRY TOO
David Lance sat wondering. He was not due at the office till ten this
Saturday night and he was putting in a long and thorough wonder. About
the service in all its branches; about finance; about the new Liberty
Loan. First, how was he to stop being a peaceful reporter on the
_Daybreak_ and get into uniform; that wonder covered a class including
the army, navy and air-service, for he had been refused by all three; he
wondered how a small limp from apple-tree acrobatics at ten might be so
explained away that he might pass; reluctantly he wondered also about
the Y.M.C.A. But he was a fighting man _par excellence_. For him it
would feel like slacking to go into any but fighting service. Six feet
two and weighing a hundred and ninety, every ounce possible to be muscle
was muscle; easy, joyful twenty-four-year-old muscle which knew nothing
of fatigue. He was certain he would make a fit soldier for Uncle Sam,
and how, how he wanted to be Uncle Sam's soldier!
He was getting desperate. Every man he knew in the twenties and many a
one under and over, was in uniform; bitterly he envied the proud peace
in their eyes when he met them. He could not bear to explain things once
more as he had explained today to Tom Arnold and "Beef" Johnson, and
"Seraph" Olcott, home on leave before sailing for France. He had
suffered while they listened courteously and hurried to say that they
understood, that it was a shame, and that: "You'll make it yet, old
son." And they had then turned to each other comparing notes of camps.
It made little impression that he had toiled and sweated early and late
in this struggle to get in somewhere--army, navy, air-service--anything
to follow the flag. He wasn't allowed. He was still a reporter on the
_Daybreak_ while the biggest doings of humanity were getting done, and
every young son of America had his chance to help. With a strong,
tireless body aching for soldier's work, America, his mother, refused
him work. He wasn't allowed.
Lance groaned, sitting in his one big chair in his one small room. There
were other problems. A Liberty Loan drive was on, and where could he lay
hands on money for bonds? He had plunged on the last loan and there was
yet something to pay on the $200 subscription. And there was no one and
nothing to fall back on except his salary as reporter for the
_Daybreak._ His father had died when he was six, and his mother eight
years ago; his small capital had gone for his four years, at Yale. There
was no one--except a legend of cousins in the South. Never was any one
poorer or more alone. Yet he must take a bond or two. How might he hold
up his head not to fight and not to buy bonds. A knock at the door.
"Come in," growled Lance.
The door opened, and a picture out of a storybook stood framed and
smiling. One seldom sees today in the North the genuine old-fashioned
negro-woman. A sample was here in Lance's doorway. A bandanna of red and
yellow made a turban for her head; a clean brownish calico dress stood
crisply about a solid and waistless figure, and a fresh white apron
covered it voluminously in front; a folded white handkerchief lay,
fichu-wise, around the creases of a fat black neck; a basket covered
with a cloth was on her arm. She stood and smiled as if to give the
treat time to have its effect on Lance. "Look who's here!" was in large
print all over her. And she radiated peace and good-will.
Lance was on his feet with a shout. "Bless your fat heart, Aunt
Basha--I'm glad to see you," he flung at her, and seized the basket and
slung it half across the room to a sofa with a casualness, alarming to
Aunt Basha--christened Bathsheba seventy-five years ago, but "rightly
known," she had so instructed Lance, as "Aunt Basha."
"Young marse, don' you ruinate the washin', please sir," she adjured in
liquid tones.
"Never you mind. It's the last one you'll do for me," retorted Lance.
"Did I tell you you couldn't have the honor of washing for me anymore,
Aunt Basha?"
Aunt Basha was wreathed in smiles.
"Yassir, young marse. You tole me dat mo'n tree times befo', a'ready,
sir."
"Well--it's final this time. Can't stand your prices. I _can't_ stand
your exorbitant prices. Now what do you have the heart to charge for
dusting off those three old shirts and two and a half collars? Hey?"
Aunt Basha, entirely serene, was enjoying the game. "What does I
charges, sir? Fo' dat wash, which you slung 'round acrost de room, sir?
Well, sir, young marse, I charges fo' dollars 'n sev'nty fo' cents, sir,
dis week. Fo' dat wash."
Lance let loose a howl and flung himself into his chair as if
prostrated, long legs out and arms hanging to the floor. Aunt Basha
shook with laughter. This was a splendid joke and she never, never tired
of it. "You see!" he threw out, between gasps. "Look at that! _Fo'_
dollars 'n sev'nty _fo'_ cents." He sat up suddenly and pointed a big
finger, "Aunt Basha," he whispered, "somebody's been kidding you.
Somebody's lied. This palatial apartment, much as it looks like it, is
not the home of John D. Rockefeller." He sprung up, drew an imaginary
mantle about him, grasped one elbow with the other hand, dropped his
head into the free palm and was Cassius or Hamlet or Faust--all one to
Aunt Basha. His left eyebrow screwed up and his right down, and he
glowered. "List to her," he began, and shot out a hand, immediately to
replace it where it was most needed, under his elbow. "But list, ye
Heavens and protect the lamb from this ravening wolf. She chargeth--oh
high Heavens above!--she expecteth me to pay"--he gulped sobs--"the
extortioner, the she-wolf--expecteth me to pay her--_fo_' dollars 'n
sev'nty _fo_' cents!"
Aunt Basha, entranced with this drama, quaked silently like a large
coffee jelly, and with that there happened a high, rich, protracted
sound which was laughter, but laughter not to be imitated of any vocal
chords of a white race. The delicious note soared higher, higher it
seemed than the scale of humanity, and was riotous velvet and cream,
with no effort or uncertainty. Lance dropped his Mephistopheles pose and
grinned.
"It's Q sharp!" he commented. "However does she do it!"
"Naw, sir, young marse," Aunt Basha began, descending to speech. "De
she-wolf, she don' expecteth you to pay no fo' dollars 'n sev'nty fo'
cents, sir. Dat's thes what I _charges_. Dat ain' what you _pay_. You
thes pay me sev'nty fo' cents sir. Dat's all."
"Oh!" Lance let it out like a ten-year-old. It was hard to say which
enjoyed this weekly interview more, the boy or the old woman. The boy
was lonely and the humanity unashamed of her race and personality made
an atmosphere which delighted him. "Oh!" gasped Lance. "That's a relief.
I thought it was goodbye to my Sunday trousers."
Aunt Basha, comfortable and efficient, was unpacking the basket and
putting away the wash in the few bureau drawers which easily held the
boy's belongings. "Dey's all mended nice," she announced. "Young marse,
sir, you better wa' out dese yer ole' undercloses right now, endurin' de
warm weather, 'caze dey ain' gwine do you fo' de col'. You 'bleeged to
buy some new ones sir, when it comes off right cool."
Lance smiled, for there was no one but this old black woman to take care
of him and advise his haphazard housekeeping, and he liked it. "Can't
buy new ones," he made answer. "There you go again, mixing me up with
Rockefeller. I'm not even the Duke of Westminster, do you see. I haven't
got any money. Only sev'nty fo' cents for the she-wolf."
Aunt Basha chuckled. Long ago there had been a household of young people
in the South whose clothes she, a very young woman then, had mended;
there had been a boy who talked nonsense to her much as this boy--Marse
Pendleton. But trouble had come; everything had broken like a card-house
under an ocean wave. "De fambly" was lost, and she and her young
husband, old Uncle Jeems of today, had drifted by devious ways to this
Northern city. "Ef you ain't got de money handy dis week, young marse,
you kin pay me nex' week thes as well," suggested the she-wolf.
Then the big boy was standing over her, and she was being patted on the
shoulder with a touch that all but brought tears to the black, dim eyes.
"Don't you dare pay attention to my drool, or I'll never talk to you
again," Lance ordered. "Your sev'nty fo' cents is all right, and lots
more. I've got heaps of cash that size, Aunt Basha. But I want to buy
Liberty Bonds, and I don't know how in hell I'm going to get big money."
The boy was thinking aloud. "How am I to raise two hundred for a couple
of bonds, Aunt Basha? Tell me that?" He scratched into his thatch of
hair and made a puzzled face.
"What fo' you want big money, young marse?"
"Bonds. Liberty Bonds. You know what that is?"
"Naw, sir."
"You don't? Well you ought to," said Lance. "There isn't a soul in this
country who oughtn't to have a bond. It's this way. You know we're
fighting a war?"
"Yassir. Young Ananias Johnson, he's Sist' Amanda's boy, he done tole
his Unk Jeems 'bout dat war. And Jeems, he done tole me."
Lance regarded her. Was it possible that the ocean upheaval had stirred
even the quietest backwater so little? "Well, anyhow, it's the biggest
war that ever was on earth."
Aunt Basha shook her head. "You ain't never seed de War of de
Rebullium," she stated with superiority. "You's too young. Well, I
reckon dis yer war ain't much on to dat war. Naw, sir! Dat ar was a sure
'nough war--yas, sir!"
Lance considered. He decided not to contest the point. "Anyhow Aunt
Basha, this is an awfully big war. And if we don't win it the Germans
will come over here and murder the most of us, and make you and Uncle
Jeems work in the fields from daylight till dark."
"Dem low down white trash!" commented Aunt Basha.
"Yes, and worse. And Uncle Sam can't beat the Germans unless we all
help. He needs money to buy guns for the soldiers, and food and clothes.
So he's asking everybody--just everybody--to lend him money--every cent
they can raise to buy things to win the war. He gives each person who
lends him any, a piece of paper which is a promise to pay it back, and
that piece of paper is called a bond--Uncle Sam's promise to pay.
Everybody ought to help by giving up every cent they have. The soldiers
are giving their lives to save us from the horrible Germans. They're
going over there to live in mud and water and sleep in holes of the
earth, to be shot and wounded and tortured and killed. They're facing
that for our sakes, to save us from worse than death, for you and Uncle
Jeems and me, Aunt Basha. Now, oughtn't we to give all we've got to take
care of those boys--our soldiers?"
Lance had forgotten his audience, except that he was wording his speech
carefully in the simplest English. It went home.
"Oh, my Lawd!" moaned Aunt Basha, sitting down and rocking hard. "Does
dey sleep in de col' yeth? Oh, my Lawd have mercy!" It was the first
realization she had had of the details of the war. "You ain't gwine over
dar, is you young marse, honey?" she asked anxiously.
"I wish to God I was," spoke Lance through set teeth. "No, Aunt Basha,
they won't take me. Because I'm lame. I'd give my life to go. And
because I can't fight I _must_ buy bonds. Do you see? I must. I'd sell
my soul to get money for Liberty Bonds. Oh, God!" Lance was as if alone,
with only that anxious old black face gazing up at him. "Oh, God--it's
my country!"
Suddenly the rich flowing voice spoke. "Young marse, it's my country
too, sir," said Aunt Basha.
Lance turned and stared. How much did the words mean to the old woman?
In a moment he knew.
"Yas, my young marseter, dis yer America's de ole black 'oman's country,
thes like it's fine young white man's, like you, sir. I gwine give my
las' cent, like you say. Yas, I gwine do dat. I got two hun'erd dollars,
sir; I b'en a-savin' and a-savin' for Jeems 'n me 'ginst when we git
ole, but I gwine give dat to my country. I want Unc' Sam to buy good
food for dem boys in the muddy water. Bacon 'n hominy, sir--'n corn
bread, what's nourishin'. 'N I want you to git de--de Liberty
what-je-call-'ems. Yassir. 'Caze you ain't got no ma to he'ep you out,
'n de ole black 'oman's gwine to be de bes' ma she know how to her young
marse. I got de money tied up--" she leaned forward and whispered--"in a
stockin' in de bottom draw' ob de chist unner Jeem's good coat. Tomorrow
I gwine fetch it, 'n you go buy yo' what-je-calls-'ems."
Lance went across and knelt on the floor beside her and put his arms
around the stout figure. He had been brought up with a colored mammy and
this affection seemed natural and homelike. "Aunt Basha, you're one of
the saints," he said. "And I love you for it. But I wouldn't take your
blessed two hundred, not for anything on earth. I'd be a hound to take
it. If you want some bonds"--it flashed to him that the money would be
safer so than in the stocking under Jeem's coat--"why, I'll get them for
you. Come into the _Daybreak_ office and ask for me, say--Monday. And
I'll go with you to the bank and get bonds. Here's my card. Show anybody
that at the office." And he gave directions.
Five minutes later the old woman went off down the street talking half
aloud to herself in fragments of sentences about "Liberty
what-je-call-'ems" and "my country too." In the little shack uptown that
was home for her and her husband she began at once to set forth her new
light. Jeems, who added to the family income by taking care of furnaces
and doing odd jobs, was grizzled and hobbling of body, but argumentative
of soul.
"'Oman," he addressed Aunt Basha, "Unc' Sam got lots o' money. What use
he gwine have, great big rich man lak Unc' Sam, fo' yo' two hun'erd? But
we got mighty lot o' use fo' dat money, we'uns. An' you gwine gib dat
away? Thes lak a 'oman!" which, in other forms, is an argument used by
male people of many classes.
Aunt Basha suggested that Young Marse David said something about a piece
of paper and Uncle Sam paying back, but Jeems pooh-poohed that.
"Naw, sir. When big rich folks goes round collectin' po' folkses money,
is dey liable to pay back? What good piece o' paper gwine do you? Is dey
aimin' to let you see de color ob dat money agin? Naw, sir. Dey am not."
He proceeded to another branch of the subject. "War ain' gwine las'
long, nohow. Young Ananias he gwine to Franch right soon, an' de yether
colored brothers. De Germans dey ain't gwine las' long, once ef dey see
us Anglo-Saxons in de scrablin'. Naw, sir.
"White man what come hyer yether day, he say how dey ain't gwine 'low de
colored sojers to fight," suggested Aunt Basha. German propaganda
reaches far and takes strange shapes.
"Don' jer go to b'lieve dat white man, 'oman," thundered Jeems, thumping
with his fist. "He dunno nawthin', an' I reckon he's a liar. Unc' Sam he
say we kin fight an' we _gwine_ fight. An' de war ain't las' long atter
we git to fightin' good."