A section of the Argonne wood is feebly lighted by distant star
shells. Over the mechanical and human wreckage eddies the vapor of
poison gas; yet the two men sitting against the ruined
gun-emplacement wear no masks, and seem not to feel the gas. One is
a husky chap, a marine; his left foot, gone above the ankle, is
replaced by an ineffectual tourniquet. The other is a conscript;
across his breast is a wide gash of bubbling red.
Nearby lies a German, bayonet-gashed, who from time to time opens his
eyes. At his knee lies an empty U.S.A. canteen.
The Marine: You were a damn' fool to give him that bottle! Not that
it matters to us, only--
The Conscript, smiling: You gave him yours first!
The Marine: Sure; I figured yours 'ud do us, but we should worry now!
Say, Fritzie learned somethin' about fightin' today, huh?
The Conscript: I feel like writing a poem about it; only I'll never
write it, of course--
The Marine: Cut the comedy, bo! Say, the way you knifed this guy was
one swell bit o' work! After he ploughed you up, too!
The poet-conscript shivers. The German opens his eyes wide and looks
at them.
The German: Listen--the music! Can you hear it? The Brunhilde
motif; it is the valkyr coming for me--
His eyes close again, his head droops.
The Marine: Plumb nuts; I bet he ain't et a square meal in a year!
Say, what d'you figure on seein' next, bo?
The Conscript, blankly: Eh?
The Marine: Why, we don't swallow no bull about fightin' for
democracy and goin' to heaven; everybody except the home folks is
wise to that bunk. But where do we land on the other side, hey?
Fightin' Heinie won't ticket us to the pearly gates, will it?
The Conscript, gazing at the curling trees in the mist: Search me!
Religion never bothered me much; and just now I'm sorry.
The Marine: Sorry, hell! Cut out the regrets. If you hadn't give
that guy your canteen we might ha' lasted till morning.
The Conscript: If you hadn't crawled to help prop him up, your
tourniquet might not have given way--
Suddenly startled, both men turn their heads. Before them appears
the figure of a man, nearly naked, an open wound in his side; he is
regarding them attentively.
The Marine: Hullo! Where in hell did you come from--front lines?
Sit down and take it easy; no Croy Rouge nor nothin' here to hurry
you. Got it bad?
The Conscript: Here's an extra first-aid packet--better stop the
bleeding.
The naked man moves closer, but refuses the proffered packet.
The Naked Man: Thank you, brother, but it would do me no good.
The Marine: I guess you're right there. Bayonet, hey? Jabbed up an'
got you.
The Naked Man: I've come from inside the German lines.