"'It's your son. I know you can't forgive me for I killed him. But
I want you to know he didn't suffer. The end came quickly. He was
very brave. He must also have been very good. He had your picture
in his pocket. I am sending it back, though I should like to keep
it. I suppose I am his enemy, yet I don't feel so at all. I'd give
my life to have him back. I didn't think of him or you when I shot
at his machine. He was an enemy spying out our men. I couldn't let
him get back to tell his news. It meant death to our men. It was a
plucky deed. We were covered up with brush. He had to come quite
low to see us and he came bravely. He nearly escaped me. He handled
his machine magnificently. I thought how I should like to fly with
him. But he was the enemy and had to be destroyed. I fired. It was
over in a second. Just a blow on the head as the machine crashed to
earth. His face shows no suffering, only excitement. His eyes are
bright and fearless. I know you must have loved him. My mother died
when I was quite a little boy. But I know what she would have felt
if I had been killed. War isn't fair to women. God! how I wish it
were over. It is a nightmare. I feel if I just touched your boy,
he'd wake and we'd be friends. I know his body must be dear to you.
I will take care of it and mark his grave with a little cross.
After the war you may want to take him home.
"'For the first time, I'm almost glad my mother isn't living. She
could not have borne what I have done. My own heart is heavy. I
felt it was my duty. Yet now when I see your son lifeless before me
and hold your picture in my hand, it all seems wrong. The world is
dark. O Mother, be my mother just a little too, and tell me what to
do.--HUGH.'"
Slowly great tears rolled down the woman's cheeks. What was this
monster that was smashing men? Her boy and this other, they were the
same. No hate was in their hearts. They suffered--the whole world
suffered. Her country went in hunger. The babies in the nearby cottages
grew weak for want of milk. She mustn't tell that to the English lad.
His heart would break. Why must such suffering be? Was she to blame?
There was the English lad without a mother. She had not thought of him
and others like him. Her home, her sons, her Fatherland, these had been
sufficient. But each life hangs on every other. Motherhood is universal.