While in Geneva I visited the Red Cross authorities. This is the
Central Bureau for relief work. It gives aid to the wounded and
prisoners of all the belligerent countries. Many horrible, tragic and
beautiful stories pass through the committee's hands.
After the war these stories will come to light. At present the rigid
censorship prevents publication, for it is impossible to carry printed
or written material across frontiers.
But one story told me needed no notes. It became engraven in my memory.
It is the story of an English boy and a German mother.
I could not secure the letters that passed between these two but their
contents, and the other facts given are here set forth accurately. This
is a true story.
* * * * *
The sky was a soft, shining blue. The air was still. The warmth of
summer brooded over the land. But no bird's song broke the stillness.
No bees fluttered over flowers. The earth lay torn and bare. In deep
brown furrows of the earth, hundreds of restless men lay or knelt or
stood.
The land was vibrant with living silence. But now and again a gigantic
smashing roar broke the tense stillness. Then in some spots, the ground
spit forth masses of dirt, a soldier's helmet, a tattered rag of
uniform, and bits of a human body.
It was after such a mighty blast that a great winged object came
speeding from the north. It skimmed low over the trenches and dipped,
and circled and paused above the English line. Like a great eagle it
seemed about to rush to earth, snatch its prey, and then be off. But
as it hung suspended, another whirring monster flew swiftly from
the south. It winged its way above its rival, then turning, plunged
downward. The great cannons grew silent. The eyes of the pigmies in
the trenches gazed skyward. A breathless tenseness gripped the earth.
Only sun and sky shone on with no whisper of the mad fight of these two
winged things.
For a few wild moments they rushed at one another. Then the whirring
bird with wings of white rose high, turned back, and plunged again upon
that other whose wings had huge, black crosses.
It missed its prey, but there came a cracking sound. A puff of smoke,
like a hot breath, burst from the creature of the iron crosses. It
shuddered, dropped, turned, and fell head down. With sweeping curves
the pursuer also came to earth. A lean, young Englishman sprang from
the whirring engine. His body quivered with excitement. He sped with
running feet to the broken object lying on the ground. He knelt by the
twisted mass. Beneath the splintered wood and iron he saw a boyish
figure. It was still and motionless. He gently pulled the body out. A
fair young German lay before him. A deep gash in the head showed where
a blow had brought instant death. The body was straight and supple,
the features clear cut and clean. A boy's face with frank and fearless
brow looked up at the young Englishman. The eyes held no malice. They
were full of shocked surprise. The brown haired lad felt the lifeless
heart. A piece of cardboard met his fingers. He pulled it from the coat
pocket. It was a picture--a picture of a woman--a woman with gray hair
and kindly eyes,--a mother whose face bore lines of patient suffering.
Scrawled beneath the portrait in boyish hand were the words, "Meine
Mutter."
A sob choked the young Englishman. Tenderly he gathered the lifeless
form in his strong arms. Then he rose and walked unheeding across the
open field of battle. But no angry bullet pelted after those young
figures. The men in the trenches saw and understood. Behind the lines
the boy lay his burden down. Taking paper and pencil from his pocket
and placing the little picture before him, he began to write.
When he had finished he placed the letter and portrait in a carefully
directed envelope. Then walking hurriedly to his machine he prepared
for flight. Soon he was whirring low over the enemy trenches. Leaning
out, he dropped his missile. The cannons roared, but no rifle was
turned on that bright figure. Instinctively, men knew his deed was
one of mercy. As the little paper fluttered downward it was picked up
by eager soldier hands. A little cheer broke from a hundred throats.
Willing messengers passed it to the rear. Speedily it went on its way.
Twenty-four hours later a mother with pale face and trembling hands
fingered the white scrap of paper. Her unseeing eyes gazed out on a
smiling landscape. Between green meadows in the warm summer sunshine
lay the glittering Rhine. But she saw nothing. Her baby boy was dead.
Memories of him flooded her. She felt again the warmth of the baby body
as it clung to hers and the pull of the tiny hands at her breast. She
saw him as a boy, his eager restlessness. She heard his running steps
at the door and his cry of "mother." It was over. That bright spirit
was still. The third and last son had been exacted. Her fingers touched
the letter in her lap. Her eyes fell on the penciled words. Slowly they
took meaning. This boy who wrote: He'd seen the beauty of her son. He'd
lifted the dear body in his arms. His heart was torn by anguish. What
was it he said?