“P.S. The papers say that we must call you Sammies now. Are you my little
Sammy?”
Hope was burned to a white crisp in his intense disappointment. It left
him feeling cold and as if a large hole had been burned in his side.
His eyes were blinded and weak as if by a sudden glare. “Oh, damn. Oh,
damn.” He crushed the letter in the palm of his hand, making it a paper
wad. Feverishly he unfolded the letter, spreading out the wrinkles. Ellen
danced before him, a fiend with golden hair, an angel who had a forked
tongue. She didn’t care, she never cared. But she did, a voice informed
him, rationalizing his experiences with her, the words she had spoken
to him. She must still care. There was hope. If only he could get back,
could see her, could talk to her.... But that was ridiculous. He would
stay there with the platoon until he was killed, or, by a piece of luck,
wounded. He looked at the combat-packs whose owners never would wear them
again, at the pierced helmets and the blood-stained gas-masks. Pieces of
equipment were scattered over the ground alongside the small, pitiful
holes which had been dug for safety. The tall, straight trees grew
thicker in the distance. Their shadows invited him. The grass acted as a
continual spring-board, pushing his body forward into the thicket. On he
walked, a smile, half of gladness, half of bewilderment, turning up the
corners of his mouth.
At last, out of sight of every one, in the thickest of the woods, he sat
upon a small hill and regarded his misshapen, hobnailed shoe. It held a
curious fascination for him. Yes, the little bump was where the small
toe curled. But none of his other toes reached to the end of the shoe,
he reflected. What nice leather. A shame to spoil such leather as that.
Yes, a shame, and besides.... From his pack he drew a small, round can of
Argentina beef, which he balanced between his instep and the toe of his
shoe. No harm in spoiling that! He wiggled his toes around in the shoe
and felt squeamish. His hand felt for his pistol at his side. Yes, there
it was and nicely oiled. He drew the pistol from the holster and aimed it
at the small blue can. Forty-five-caliber pistols kicked up in the air
when they were fired, he remembered. He aimed it a bit lower—and _bang_.
For a moment he felt nothing. The grin was still on his face. Then his
look changed to one of consternation. Better go back and report to the
platoon. He rose to his feet, took a few steps, and fell to the ground.
By heavens, this was no joke, shooting yourself in the foot. This was
serious business. Hospital and everything. Then he remembered that he
had done it himself. It was probably the first time that he had really
known it. Court martial and disgrace. And he had only meant to get back
home. He began to whimper.
* * * * *
Lieutenant Bedford, his skin the color of sun-bleached ash, walked among
the men, a beaten Napoleon. A patch of black, ragged beard, his heavy,
bristling mustache, his dull brown eyes that seemed to pain, made him
appear more dead than alive as he loped along. The men remained lying
on the ground, recognizing his approach by a speculative glance. Their
faces were interestingly similar. A dull gray pallor overspread them all.
Their eyes were leaden, expressionless, save for a kind of apathetic
fear of the inevitable. Each lower jaw hung at the same depressed angle.
Lieutenant Bedford sat down as if it were his final act.
“Any of you men feel like doing any work?” There was no answer.
Lieutenant Bedford spoke again. “I got to have a work detail. These
fellows must be buried. Are there any volunteers?” After a short silence
some one asked weakly: “Where is that damned grave-digger battalion? What
are they for?”
“Yes, where are they? I didn’t come in this man’s army to dig graves.”
Lieutenant Bedford tried to appear indignant. “How the hell do you expect
the grave-diggers to be here when the artillery haven’t even got up here
yet? Nope, we’ve got to bury them, that’s all. Besides, they’re our
dead. They’ll be stinkin’ like hell by to-night if we don’t bury ’em,”
he encouraged. “Harriman,” he went on in a sort of drone, “pick out a
burial detail and have the men work in reliefs.” There was no “yes, sir”
forthcoming. The men looked at each other and then at Lieutenant Bedford.
“Harriman ain’t here.”
“Did he get knocked off, too?” Lieutenant Bedford asked.
“Naw, he was around here this morning.”
“Does anybody know what happened to him? Where’d he go?”
No one knew.
“Well, if he’s gone, he’s gone.” Lieutenant Bedford grew decisive.
“Lepere, you take charge. You don’t need to bury ’em so deep. They’ll
have to be dug up again, anyway.”
Lepere showed surprising signs of life. “All right, men.” His accents
became almost crisp. “Hicks, Pugh, Bullis, Hartman, Kruger.” He pointed
his finger impressively as he named off eight men.
Sullen, they rose and stood around hesitatingly, asking: “Where are the
shovels? Do you expect us to dig holes with our hands?” Bullis was weak
and exasperated.
Lepere had become a dynamo. He radiated energy. “You’ll find plenty of
shovels right down by where Captain Powers was killed. Follow me.” The
men trailed off in a group.
They set to work laboriously. Soon the first hole had reached a depth
so that the bodies would not be too near the surface when the dirt was
thrown back in place. On a bloody stretcher a mutilated body was carried
to the freshly dug hole and rolled over upon a blanket.
“All right there, Pugh. Grab hold.” Lepere was peremptory.
“Lepeah, Ah can’t. I’d throw up my guts. You call me when you’re ready to
dig the next hole.” Pugh walked away.
“Come back here, Pugh. I’ll report you for insubordination.”
“Ah doan cah wot yo do. Go to hell.”
While Lepere had been talking the body had been lifted into the hole and
the first shovelful of dirt had been thrown over it.
“Say, wait a minute. Stop that. We’ve got to git his dog-tag off.”
Lepere stooped over the body and fumbled at the dirty collar. “Gimme
a knife.” He snipped one of the identification disks from the greasy
string. Stuffing it in his pocket, he drew back and ordered: “Now go
ahead.”
The business was continued silently. Bodies were carried to the clearing
marked off for the temporary burial-place, rolled in a blanket, and
dropped into shallow holes. Before they were dumped into their temporary
graves their pockets were searched and the contents placed in little
piles on the ground. Some of the bodies were unrecognizable, although the
men at work had seen them and talked with them the day before. One or two
of the bodies looked as if life had fled them peacefully. The uniforms
were unspotted with blood, the faces were calm. But some of the faces
were distorted. The lips rose from the teeth and made them look like
fangs. One body, on which the skin looked like liver, had been struck
lifeless a few days earlier. It stunk terrifically, and when Lepere’s
hands sought out the neck for the identification tag, his fingers sank
into the flesh. But he went stolidly on about his work. Hicks turned his
body and engaged in a paroxysm of gagging. He turned again, his face the
color of a piece of paper. The work went on.
The late afternoon sun shone upon a group of mounds of fresh-dug dirt.
Each mound was marked by two rough sticks, made to form a cross, at the
juncture of which a small aluminum disk bearing a number was fastened.
A few yards away men were eating cold beef, cold boiled potatoes, and
drinking lukewarm coffee from their muddy canteen cups.
* * * * *
The sky was clear and the air was like a bell. It could have been fancied
that any noise must be a tinkling one. The tree tops were tall Gothic
spires that reached to the heavens. The man in the moon was distinct in
the round, pale ball that threw silvery sheets into the forest.
The platoon believed that it had embarked upon a night that at last
was to be silent, harmless. They tried to stretch their muscles, which
had been taut for days; their thoughts sought out other and more
pleasant scenes of remembrance. The air was crisp and their bodies
felt comfortable under their blankets. Their heads, pillowed on their
gas-masks, were, for once, inert. Fear had flown.
The first shell that whined its course from the German lines to the place
where they were asleep passed unnoticed. It struck the ground with a
“P-tt.” The next one did likewise, but some one awakened. He touched the
man lying near to him. “What was that?” he asked fearfully, wanting to
be assured. Another shell, sounding like a full bottle that is shaken,
dropped several yards away.
“Oh, hell,” said the aroused man. “The Squareheads are out of ammunition.
They’re shootin’ beer-bottles over.” He fell asleep, unconcerned. The
first man sniffed. “Beer-bottles! I guess not. GAS!” he screamed, in a
panic. Grunting, swearing, frightened, the men got their masks over their
faces in less time than they had been trained to. Now they sat around
tense, their minds blank, the saliva running down their chins from the
mouthpiece of the mask.
Ahead of them, in the ravine, where they had been a few days ago, shells
broke, reporting noisily. More shells were hurled over, to fall and
explode, battering at the ravine. Meanwhile the barely discernible P-tt
continued around them. The bombardment seemed to be everlasting. Under so
heavy a bombardment the ravine must be levelled out. Bang, crash, bang,
up in front at the ravine. P-tt, P-tt, P-tt, back where the platoon was
lying. Out of the noise a voice was heard calling: “Hey, Third Platoon.
We want volunteers for stretcher bearers!” Through the dimness made by
the glass eyes of his mask, Hicks saw a man come stumbling through the
trees.
“Where are you, Third Platoon?” the form cried.
Hicks drew off his mask, yelled “HERE!” and replaced it, then forcing the
contaminated air out of the mask.
“We want volunteers.” The form had a querulous voice.
Hicks took off his mask again. “Put on your mask!” he shouted.
“Damn the mask!” cursed the form. “We’ve got nothing but wounded men up
at the front line and we want some help.”
From somewhere among the still figures Lieutenant Bedford arose and
walked to the form.
“Hello, doc. You better put on your mask. The gas is damn heavy here.” He
dove into his mask again.
“Damn it, I came back here for volunteers, not to be told what to do. We
got a lot of wounded men up there.”
“All right; I’ll get you some men.” He summoned six men and ordered them
to take litters up to the ravine.
* * * * *
“Good God, Hicks, don’t go so fast. Wait a minute.”
“All right; let your end down, then.”
Hicks and Pietrzak had been assigned to the job of litter bearers. It was
now the third time that they had carried a wounded man from the ravine
to the first-aid station, almost two miles away. To do so they had to
escape the shells that fell so numerously in the ravine, and, with their
masks on, to carry their burden through the gulley filled with gas. On
arriving at the first-aid station the first time they found their burden
to be dead. His arm had been severed from his body. The second man was
unconscious when he was lowered to the ground in front of the first-aid
station. Now they were on the way from the ravine once more, carrying
a man whose middle had been pierced by a fragment of shell casing. As
they lowered the stretcher to rest, the man groaned and pleaded with
them to go on. Hicks tried to reason: “We’ll never git there if we
don’t take a little rest. We’ll be there soon, buddy. Do you want a
drink?” He offered his canteen. “No, just take me away from here,” the
man groaned piteously. They rested until they could endure the man’s
groaning no longer; then they started off. They had no more than started
when a shell struck directly in rear of them. They plodded on with their
burden, stumbling over the boulders in the gulley. A little farther on
and another shell exploded. On they went until the mustard-like odor
of gas filled their nostrils. Then they stopped to put on their masks.
Letting his end of the stretcher sink slowly to the ground, Hicks asked
the wounded man: “Can you wear a mask, buddy?”
“Yes, oh, yes, give it to me. I’ll die without it.” Fear in the man’s
voice was stronger than pain. Hicks bent over the man’s chest for the
familiar respirator. It was gone. “Where is your mask?” he asked. “I
don’t know.” Very gently Hicks raised his head and placed his mask
over the face of the wounded man. They started on again. Rapidly,
successively, three shells struck close by. The rear end of the stretcher
dropped to the ground.
“Pete!” cried Hicks.
Pietrzak did not answer, and Hicks, putting down his end of the
stretcher, walked to the other end and felt along the ground. Pietrzak
was lying on his side. His neck was wet with blood. A large piece of
shell casing had struck him below the ear, and he was now quite dead. His
mask was in shreds.
The wounded man was unconscious. Until he was hoarse and the gas had
burned his eyes so that they were coals of fire, Hicks called for help.
But none came. His eyes smarting dreadfully, Hicks wrapped his coat
around his head and took up his night’s vigil beside the wounded man. The
bombardment continued most of the night.
When the sun made its pilgrimage over the rim of the distant field and
showered the scene with light, Hicks was still sitting on a small rock
beside the stretcher, his chin supported by his knees, the coat over his
head.
* * * * *
For a distance of two miles, from the ravine to the village where the
supply wagons were stationed, men lay dead and dying. In the woods and
particularly in the gulley that ran through the woods to the village, the
thick yellow gas clung to the ground. Wherever the gas had touched the
skin of the men dark, flaming blisters appeared. Like acid, the yellow
gas ate into the flesh and blinded the eyes. The ground was a dump-heap
of bodies, limbs of trees, legs and arms independent of bodies, and
pieces of equipment. Here was a combat pack forlorn, its bulge indicating
such articles as a razor, an extra shirt, the last letter from home,
a box of hard bread. Another place a heavy shoe, with a wad of spiral
puttee near by. Where yesterday’s crosses had been erected, a shell had
churned a body out of its shallow grave, separating from the torso the
limbs. The crosses themselves had been blown flat, as if by a terrific
wind.
In the gray light of early morning Hicks felt the fury of impotence as
he tried to rise. He unwound the coat that covered his head, forgetful,
unmindful for the moment of the man whom he had guarded during the night.
He seemed fastened to the surface of the stone. Dimly he knew that his
legs burned with an awful pain. But the feeling of pain was lost in his
marvelling at his inability to rise. Not far, distant voices sounded.
Soon a detail of men filed along the gulley, commenting among themselves
upon the havoc of the night. He called weakly to the men who were
approaching. As their hands touched him he lost his senses and all went
black.