'Well, you needn't never want to hear 'em,' she said. 'When they
commenced we all kind of looked at one another, an' I reckon we was all
scared. Anyhow, I know _I_ was. Why, at home I'm 'fraid of a
thunderstorm. But still we kept on. The sound of the firin' got louder
an' louder, but it was never very close, and along late in the afternoon
it sort of died off, an' we commenced to draw breath again, and think
everything was goin' to be all right. I'm 'most sure now we must have
missed the way, for just about that time we ran upon a piece of road
that was all tore up. There were big holes in it from the shells, an'
those tall poplars alongside were all snapped off, an' their branches
stripped down like a child peels a switch. You could smell the fresh sap
like you can in lumber camps at home. Well, we had to slow up an' kind
of pick our way, and on round the very next turn we ran right up on
them.'
'On the fighting!' I gasped.
'No--no; the fightin' was all over then. Just for a flash, comin' on 'em
so quick like, I didn't know what they were. They looked like little
sprawled brown heaps. But in the second I was wonderin', one of 'em
flung up an arm and groaned.'
'How _awful_!' I cried aghast.
'Yes,' she assented simply, 'it certainly _was_ awful. My words ain't
big enough to tell you how awful. Runnin' up on 'em so unexpected like
that, kind of cut my breath right off an' choked me. There they were,
layin' all about acrost the road, an' in a wheat-field alongside, with
the sun just shining down like it was any kind of a summer day. A good
many of 'em were dead, but there were a plenty that weren't. They
blocked the road so we had to stop, an' right where we stopped there was
a young man layin' flung over on his back. He'd snatched his shirt open
at the breast, an' the blood had all dripped down into the dust of the
road. He opened his eyes, an' stared right up in my face, an' cried,
"Water, for God's sake!" He said it over an' over in the awfullest
voice, an' like it was one word--"Water-for-God's-sake,
water-for-God's-sake"--like that. I had this little drinkin' cup, an'
there was a good-sized creek just a piece across the field, so I grabbed
my hand-bag an' jumped out. Well, at that all of 'em in the car
commenced to holler an' scream at me to get back, that we couldn't
stop--it wouldn't be safe--an' we couldn't do anything, an' anyhow the
stretcher-bearers would be along d'rectly. But I just said, "He wants
water, an' I've got my cup here, an' there's the branch, an' anyhow," I
says, "he looks kind of like my sister's oldest boy," an' with that I
started on to the creek.
'Well, the professor an' Mr. Grenville jumped out of the car an' came
runnin' after me, but I just turned 'round an' looked at 'em. "You all
go on," I says. "He asked me for water for God's sake, an' if you try to
put me back in that car I'll fight you like a wildcat." I never did
anything like that,--fightin', I mean,'--she broke off to explain
earnestly, 'but I would have, an' I reckon they knew it. The professor
tried to argue. "You'll be a raving maniac if you stay here," he says.
"Well," I says, "look what's here now--what difference does it make if I
am?" Somehow that was the way I felt. Everything was so awful it didn't
seem to matter whether anything awful happened to me or not. So I just
kept on to the creek, and Mr. Grenville said, "For Heaven's sake, let
her stay if she can do anything. I wish to God I could stay too." But he
couldn't, he was carryin' some mighty important dispatches that he just
_had_ to get on with. An' then he calls out to me, "Good luck and God
bless you, Miss Smithson!" An' when I looked back he was standin' with
his hat off. He was a mighty nice young man. But all the time the other
ladies in the car was screamin' an' hollerin' for them to come on, so
they had to go.'
'They left you all alone!' I cried.
'They had to,' she returned. 'Mr. Grenville had to get on with his
dispatches, an' it was the last chance the professor an' his wife had of
gettin' through to their child. An' the other lady--Well, she couldn't
do nothin' but scream anyhow. By the time I was comin' back from the
creek the car was just pullin' out of sight. Somehow, to see it go like
that gave me a kind of funny feelin'. I was scared, I reckon, but all
the same I felt kind of still too. It seemed like for the last few weeks
I'd been hustled along in a wild kind of a torrent, but now I'd touched
bottom an' got my feet under me. I reckon a woman does touch bottom when
there's anything she can do--anyhow, one raised to work like I've been
does. But, oh, my Lord!' she cried suddenly, dropping her face to her
hands, 'I wish I could keep from seein' it all still--an' hearin' it
too! Did you ever hear a _man_ scream?' she demanded. 'Not just groan,
but shriek, an' scream?'
'In hospitals,' I said, uncertainly, 'I've heard people screaming when
they were coming out of ether.'
She shook her head. 'That's different. You knew there were people,
nurses and doctors, to do things for 'em; but out there there wasn't
anything but the trampled wheat, an' the big empty sky. There was plenty
of 'em who wanted water, an' begged an' cried for it; but I just said,
"I'll be back to you all presently," an' went on to the first one. He
was kind of delirious, but he could drink the water, an' was mighty glad
to get it. I brushed the flies all away, an' spread a clean handkerchief
over his wound,--he was too far gone to try an' do anything else for
him,--an' went on back to the creek. Water, that was the main thing they
wanted. The most of 'em that could be were bandaged already. Some of the
medical outfit had been around an' got 'em tied up, but after that, I
reckon the fightin' must of changed an' cut 'em off from their friends,
for the stretcher-bearers didn't come, an' didn't come.
'It was all so strange an' kind of shut away there, like destruction had
lit for a spell an' then flown on to the next place. The wheat was all
laid over an' tramped, and lumpy with khaki bodies, an' with caps an'
guns an' things flung around in it, an' the red sun sailin' down an'
down in the West, an' every here an' there awful splatters of blood in
the wheat. But I didn't have time to look an' think too much--an' it was
mighty lucky I didn't have. They were all English an' had run upon a
German battery an' been shot to pieces 'fore they hardly knew what was
happenin.' I guess some of 'em must have got away, but there was a
plenty that didn't. They'd been layin' there since dawn, an'--an' they
were _hungry_--' her voice broke. 'An' I didn't have anything to give
'em,' she whispered.
'They say after a while you get kind of numb to things,' she went on
presently, with her grave simplicity. 'I don't know how that is, but I
know the things I saw made me stop every now an' then down by the creek
out of sight, an' just wring an' wring my hands together in a kind of
rage of pity. Once, goin' through the wheat, I tramped on something
soft, an' when I looked, it was--it was just a piece of a man. I thought
I'd lay right down then an' die, but I says to myself, "They want water,
they want water"--an' that way I kind of drove myself on. But all the
time I could see my heart under my waist just jumpin' up an' down, like
it was fightin' to jump out an' run away. An' then another time--' But
she broke off. 'No,' she said, 'I won't tell about that. It's so
peaceful here with that blue water an' sunshine an' all, I reckon I
oughtn't to tell what it's like underneath when Hell takes the lid off.
An' maybe some day the Lord'll let me forget.
'But it's funny,' she went on again presently, 'how your mind grabs
ahold of any foolish thing to steady you.' She paused, staring down at
the little cup as though she drew remembrance from it. 'I recollect as I
went back and forth, back and forth, weaving out paths through the
wheat, a silly song that we used to sing to a game at school kept
runnin' in my head:--
I don't want none of your weevily wheat,
An' I don't want none of your barley;
An' I don't want none of your weevily wheat
To bake a cake for Charley.
'I was mighty glad it did. For all it was so silly, it kept me from
flyin' right off the handle. An' so I kept on an' on, carryin' 'em
water. Some of the men thought it was funny I should be there, an' they
wanted to talk an' ask me questions; but the most of 'em were sufferin'
too bad to care, an' some of 'em were busy goin' along into the next
world, an' were done with bein' surprised over anything in this. Most of
'em called me "Nurse" or "Sister," an' some way I liked to have 'em do
it. Some of 'em certainly were brave, too. Why, I saw one young fella
jump straight up to his feet an' fling his arms out wide, an' holler
right up at the sky, "Are we downhearted?--No!" an' pitch over dead. You
know,' she paused to explain simply, her extraordinarily childlike eyes
lifted to mine for understanding and sympathy, 'it just seems to snatch
the heart right out of you to see a person stand up to death like
that--'specially when they're so young, like that little fella.'
'Of course,' she went on after a moment, 'I didn't just give 'em water.
I'd do any other little thing I could besides. An' every time I could do
anything, I certainly was glad. Doing things seemed to ease up a little
that terrible rage of pity I felt. I took my skirt off an 'rolled it up
for a pillow for a little fella who couldn't move an' was layin' with
his head in a kind of a sink-hole. He tried to thank me but he
couldn't,--he just sobbed,--but he caught ahold of my hand an' kissed
it. That made me cry. It was so sort of young an' pretty of him. After
that I went on for a spell with the tears just pourin' down my cheeks.
But presently I found the one who couldn't drink the water, an' I quit
cryin' then. My tears weren't big enough; only God's would have been big
enough for that.
'The man's face was all gone,--eyes, mouth, everything,--an' still he
was alive. He must have heard me an' known somebody was there, for he
commenced to scream an' moan, tryin' to say things down in his throat,
an' to reach out his hands an' flop about--O my God! It was like a
chicken with its head off! I thought I'd _have_ to run. But I didn't. I
just sort of fell down beside him, an' caught ahold of his hands, an'
patted them an' talked to him like you do to a child in a nightmare. I
don't know what I said at first. Just a crazy jumble of pity, I reckon;
but after a little bit I found I was prayin'. I know _I_ needed it, an'
it seemed to help him too, for after a little bit, he stopped that awful
tryin' to speak down in his throat, an' lay still just grippin' my
hands. I was so crazy I couldn't think of a thing to say but "God bless
us an' keep us an' make his face to shine upon us an' be merciful unto
us." An' I just said that over an' over.
'I guess it wasn't the words that he wanted, it was the feelin' of
havin' God there in all that awful dark and blood, an' some human bein'
beside him who was sorry. Anyhow, every time I'd stop he'd snatch at my
wrists so hard it would hurt; look.' She broke off to push up her gray
sleeve, and there on her thin wrist, still vividly black and blue, were
the bruised prints of fingers. 'But I was glad to be hurt--I _wanted_ to
be hurt. I wanted to have a share in all the sufferin'. It just seemed
like my heart would break. An',' she added with great simplicity, 'I
reckon that's just what it did do, for I know I broke through into
something bigger than I ever had been.
'Well, after a while, God did have mercy on that poor soul, for he quit
pullin' at my hands, and began to die, an' when I came 'round again to
him he was gone. But that got me started, an' I left off sayin' that
foolishness about the weevily wheat, an' said the little prayer instead.
I said it to myself first, but after a little bit, I found I was sayin'
it out loud. I don't know why, but it seemed like I _had_ to say it
every time I gave one of 'em water. Just "God bless us an' keep us an'
make his face to shine upon us and be merciful unto us." It was somehow
like a child's game--like havin' to touch every tree-box goin' along
the street, or steppin' over every crack. Each one of 'em had to have
the water an' the little prayer, an' then on to the next, or back down
to the creek for more. Most of 'em didn't seem to notice, but some of
'em laughed, an' some stared like I was crazy,--an' maybe I was a
little,--an' again some of 'em were glad of it.
'So I kep' on an' on, an' the sun went down, an' the dark came, an' it
seemed like a kind of a lid had shut us away from all the world. It
wasn't right dark, for the stars were shinin'. It was about that time
that I found the little officer. He was dyin', off in the wheat all to
himself, an' he got me to take down some messages for his folks. I wrote
'em in my diary. I had a pocket flashlight in my bag, an' it made a
round eye of light that stared out at every word I wrote. They were the
simplest kind of words. Just love, love to mother, and love to father,
and Snippy and Peg, an' good-bye to 'em all, an' how he was glad to die
for England. But they look mighty strange jumpin' out there in my diary
alongside of travel notes about Brussels. It's like something big an'
terrible had smashed its fist right through all the little fancy things.
'But it was funny,' she went on after a minute, 'how sort of like
children so many of the men were, so trusting an' helpless. There was
one little fella always said the same thing to me every time I came
'round. "They'll sure be around for us soon now, won't they, sister?"
he'd say. An' I'd always answer, "Oh, yes, just in a little bit now."
An' he'd settle back again, so trusting an' satisfied, an' like I really
knew. That was the way they all seemed to me--just children. Even the
ones that cursed an' screamed at me. An' another funny thing,' she added
lifting her grave child's eyes to mine: 'I've never been married--never
known what it was to have children--but that night all those men were
my children, even the biggest an' roughest of 'em. I felt 'em all
_here_'--She held her hands tight against her breast. 'An' I b'lieve I
would have _died_ for any one of 'em. I reckon bein' so crazy with pity
had stretched me up out of bein' a scary old maid into bein' a mother.
'I recollect there was two loose horses gallopin' about. They were wild
with fear, an' they'd gallop as hard as ever they could in one
direction, an' then they'd wheel 'round an' come to a stand with their
heads up, an' their tails cocked, an' nicker, an' snort over what they
smelt, an' then take out again. Well, once they came chargin' right down
on us, an' I thought sure they were goin' right over the men. I never
stopped to think: I ran straight out in front of 'em wavin' my arms an'
hollerin'. They just missed gallopin' right over me. But I didn't care;
I b'lieve I'd almost have been glad. It was like I said--I _wanted_ to
be hurt too. That was because it was all so lonesome for 'em. Death an'
sufferin' is a lonesome thing,' she stated gravely. 'When they'd scream,
I felt like I'd tear my heart out to help 'em. But all I could do was
just to stand on the outside like, an' watch 'em sufferin' an' maybe
dryin' inside there all alone. That's why it seemed like bein' hurt too
would make it easier.
'Well, along late in the night, the guns broke out again awful loud, an'
presently off against the sky I saw red streaks of flame go up in two
places, an' I knew they were towns on fire. I just stopped still an'
looked, an' thought what it was like with the folks scurryin' 'round
like rats, an' the fire an' the shells rainin' down on 'em. "That's
Hell--right over there," I says out loud to myself, an' then I went on
down to the creek faster than ever. Maybe I was gettin' kind of
lightheaded then, an' God knows it was enough to make anybody so;
anyhow, I felt like I had to hold Hell back. It was loose right over
there, an' the only thing that held it off was the cup of water an' the
little prayer. So I kept on back an' forth, back an' forth from the
creek, faster an' faster. I thought if I missed one of 'em it would let
Hell in on all the rest, so I kept on an' on. The guns were boomin', an'
the flames goin' up into the sky, an' all Hell was loose, but the little
prayer an' the cup of water was holdin' it back. An' then at last, when
it commenced to freshen for dawn, I knew I'd won.'
She drew a deep breath, and paused, looking up at me with clear,
far-away eyes.
'That was because I knew He was there,' she said.
'_He?_' I questioned, awestruck by her tone.
She nodded. 'Yes, God,' she answered simply. 'An' after that, that
terrible lonesomeness melted all away. I knew that though I had to stand
outside an' see 'em suffer, He was inside there with 'em--closer to 'em
even than they was to themselves. So I knew it wasn't really lonesome
for 'em, even if they were sufferin' an' dyin'. An' I'm right sure that
a good many of 'em got to know that, too--anyhow, the faces of some of
the ones that had died looked that way when I saw 'em in the mornin'.
Maybe it was because I cared so much myself that I kind of broke through
into knowin' how much more God cared. Folks always talk like He was a
father 'way off in the sky, but I got to know that night that what was
really God was something big an' close right in your own heart, that was
a heap more like a big mother.
'An' it was all bigger an' sort of simpler than I'd ever thought it
would be. Right over there was Hell an' big guns, an' men killin' each
other, but here where we were, were just stars overhead, an' folks that
you could do things for, an' God. I reckon that's the way,' she said
with her grave simplicity, 'when things get too awful you suffer
through to God, an' He turns you back to the simplest things--just the
little prayer, an' the cup of water for men that were like sick
children. This is the cup,' she added, holding it out for my inspection.
'An'--an' that's all, I reckon,' she concluded. 'When daylight came, the
stretcher-bearers did get through to us. There was a sort of doctor
officer with them, an' I never in my life saw any one look so tired.
'"Who are you, an' what in thunder are you doing here?" he stormed out
at me--only I don't say it as strong as he did.
'I reckon I must have looked like a wild woman. I had lost my hat and my
hair was all falling down, an' I only had on my short alpaca underskirt,
'cause I'd taken off my dress skirt to make a pillow like I said; but I
just stood right up in the midst of all those poor bodies, an' says,
"I'm Miss Smithson--Sadie Virginia Smithson--an' I've been holdin' Hell
back all night."
'I knew I was talkin' crazy but I didn't care--like the way you do
comin' out of ether.
'He stared at me for a spell, an' then he says, kind of funny, "Well,
Miss Sadie Virginia, I'm glad you held some of it back, for everybody
else in the world was letting it loose last night."
'He was mighty kind to me, though, an' helped get me to one of the base
hospitals, an' from there over to England. But I don't know what
happened to the professor an' his party.'
'Well,' I ventured after a long pause, and not knowing quite what to
say, 'the Laurel Literary Society will be glad enough to have you belong
to it now.'
She flashed bolt upright at that, her eyes staring at me.
'But--but you don't understand,' she cried breathlessly. 'I've been face
to face with war an' death an' Hell an' God,--I've been born again,--do
you reckon any of them little old things matter now?'