He seemed as surprised as I was. We gaped open-mouthed at one another's
uniforms. Terror froze the blood in my veins for an instant; then
it galvanized me into action. I suddenly became conscious of what I
held in my hand and, as he muttered something guttural, I drove the
trench-knife deep into his neck.
When you took up this book you expected a confession. Well, now you've
got one. That deed, in my own estimation, was a murder. You disagree?
It was self-defense? It really wasn't anything of the kind. He had
no weapon in his hand; neither did he show any sign that he meant to
attack me. But you still think I was right in killing him? I'm sorry,
but I don't understand such reasoning. If only someone would explain it
to me! Killing Anita who deserved to die--that was a crime? Killing a
boy whose only fault was having been born in Germany--that was not?
Twenty years have passed since that awful night and this outrageous
misinterpretation of justice still remains to plague my logic. I have
asked everyone--priests, convicts, judges, cops--but no one seems to
know. Well, never mind.
Ten short minutes seemed an eternity. I lay beside the man I had
killed, waiting for some signal from the Sarge. The enemy were firing
many more Verys now and that, I suppose, was the reason for the delay.
I tried to keep my eyes off the corpse but it was a difficult feat in
that small area. In my hand I still clutched the knife and, as light
after light went up, I stared horrified at the sticky blood that
covered my hand up to the wrist. I tried to wipe it off on my pants.
My three comrades found me that way. The Sarge looked down at the body
and then patted me on the shoulder. "Nice work," he said in a whisper.
"You got him in the right place, kid. There was a Fritz party out
tonight. This guy must've been a look-out. We saw 'em in time. If this
baby had opened his yap, we'd all of us be pushin' up the daisies now."
Then he callously began to search the dead man's pockets. "Got to look
for maps and stuff," he explained. "Of course, he ain't carryin' any.
He's only a buck from the rear rank. But he might have a stogie on him
or a pack of butts."
The next morning while I was shaving, I remembered that I had taken
a life. I peered at my reflection in the steel mirror, wondering how
much the deed had changed me. I knew that I had changed inside ... but
outside I looked the same.
On the night of October 4, 1918 we made our bid for Exermont. I should
say, _they_ made _their_ bid; for I deserted.
Deserted in the face of the enemy. Say it. Go ahead, I don't care. I
had had enough of the war. But before you condemn me, imagine what
might have happened if everybody had followed my example. There would
have been no more war. There would have been nothing left to shoot at.
I lagged behind when we reached that ruined cemetery on the outskirts
of Exermont village. Machine-gun bullets were kicking up all around us
and shells were dropping, cutting off a retreat. I don't know when the
notion struck me that we were walking toward sudden and certain death,
but I was sure that nothing--not even a blade of grass--could escape
that heavy rain of lead. Taking advantage of the fact that it was dark
and there was a lot of confusion, I ducked into a convenient shell-hole
and allowed what was left of my company to go on without me.
The last thing I can remember before I came to my senses in the little
French hospital was the ever-increasing whine of some great shell. A
five-point-nine. I could identify it by its sound. As it came down
upon me, making my ears vibrate, I tried to press my body into the wet
earth. My fingers frantically dug into the ground; my eyes filled with
mud; my teeth clenched until they hurt; and my bowels opened....
* * * * *
Every soldier falls in love with his nurse. I, not much of a military
man anyway, did not. The war had not caused me to forget Anita and,
despite her very infrequent letters, my thoughts were ever full of her.
Yet, somehow, the picture was blurred, pleasurably blurred if you wish,
the imperfections blotted out. Moments dwelt on in memory, moments
very often of the flesh; memories of moments only to be whispered
when we were alone together. Desire is an insidious parasite gnawing
at one's body. And so, paradoxically enough, although it was Anita who
kept me away from women who could be had for the taking, women like
the pockmarked roads of France over which an army marched, it was also
Anita who made me glaringly conscious of a need for women. Celibacy is
the pathway to depraved thoughts, even as war is the pathway to power
of depraved minds. The very fact that Anita wrote so seldom made me
want her more. Man usually kills the thing he loves, and cherishes that
which ultimately destroys him. In the trenches, with death ever near
like a white bird flying, it was not so hard to hold one's emotions in
check. So frantically were we endeavoring to cling to life, we wooed
and clung to her as though she were our mistress. Then, too, we could
always look forward to being relieved, new troops to supplant us in
this war that was merely a prelude to all other wars, and then--a few
days in Paris. Actually, the fact that few of us ever got to Paris was
of little importance. Paris was a symbol. It represented any woman's
arms.
Lest you suspect otherwise and visualize my nurse as some homely
harridan, I would like to make it clear that Mademoiselle Monet was a
very attractive person, one with whom many a man might fall in love.
And pray do not think that I was viewing her with the astigmatic eyes
of war which distorted everything. My nurse was truly beautiful.
Furthermore, Gilberte Monet was in love with me.
How this happened, I cannot explain. There have been many jokes
made about French girls. There is the story that they considered
it a patriotic duty to sleep with each and every one of the Allied
troops from the brigadier generals right on down the line. Gilberte
was not one of those and her love for me in no way hinged upon my
uniform. Well, whatever her reason for loving me, I only know that
when I eventually became aware that I was in a long, white ward, a
friendly-looking dark-eyed girl in nurse's garb was bending over the
bed and whispering some strange, incomprehensible syllables which she
later told me meant: "So you are awake at last, my darling."
Her voice was gentle, soothing like the voice of a mother speaking
softly to her frightened little boy who lay hurt and shivering on his
bed, shrinking from imagined horrors. And I was that boy--but the
horrors were ghastly realities. No war has ever been won, not even by
the conquerors; and how can one describe that gray, terror-splashed
tumult that rages in the frontiers of the mind; that frontier where
reason locks with reality? Beyond the trenches lies a region like unto
the world in the beginning, without form and void. This I know, for I
have been there.
Yes, Gilberte Monet loved me and it was good to be loved; especially
good while I lay broken mentally and physically, afraid to die, yet
more afraid to live in a world gone mad.
You may laugh if you like. I wouldn't blame you at all. It does seem
ludicrous that I, a timid, small-town druggist could so play havoc with
a woman's heart. I am certainly no Don Juan.
I was the only American in the hospital and I must have been there
quite a long time because none of the other patients were there when I
was brought in. The first thing I learned was that the Armistice had
been signed and that the war was at an end. You may be sure I rejoiced.
But the news that my entire company had been wiped out at Exermont
greatly disheartened me.
Although I was out of danger of death, my mind was periodically unsound
and my memory as well. Sometimes for hours I would forget who I was, in
which ward I belonged and the name of my nurse. During those periods
I would suffer indescribable mental anguish until Nurse Monet came to
claim me. I would always recognize her and in a minute everything would
become clear again. I took to wheeling my chair after her wherever she
went. She did not seem to mind.
Many evenings the nurse and I would be in the hospital garden. It was
very lovely there with the green lawn and the cultivated flower beds
and the stone fountain which played incessantly. She would sit beside
my wheel-chair and coax me to sing to her. My nasal interpretations of
"K-K-K-Katy" and "Over There" sent her into fits of laughter and she
never seemed to tire of them. I would laugh with her until my shrapnel
wounds began to hurt. To this day, whenever I undress for bed and
notice the scars on my left leg and thigh, I think of the evenings in
the garden with Gilberte Monet.
One evening in particular would be much better forgotten; and I would
not mention it all were it not for my firm resolution to be frank. It
happened so naturally and so sweetly that I can scarcely believe it was
an adultery. Yet.... It will be hard to describe. I can only tell you
what we did--and that may sound very ordinary--but what we did and what
that night did to me is the important issue. That half-hour has since
served as a standard by which I weigh love to ascertain its value.
Gilberte's love was real, not feigned. It could, and did, weather
anything--even her realization that I could not reciprocate.
Yes, she gave herself to me. And what is more, no one cared. Who cared
what anyone did during those topsy-turvy years--like roulette with the
play for human chips? The hospital staff was too preoccupied with a
macabre puzzle to be disturbed over absurdities connected with a normal
human function. They were attempting to put wrecks of men together
again and, far too frequently, important pieces were missing.
And the important missing part in my own case was Anita. Gilberte
helped me to fill that gap, for which I shall be eternally grateful.
My only regret is the night I am trying to describe. There, and there
only, did we overstep the boundaries beyond which we should never have
passed. If I had loved Gilberte and not been in love with another woman
it would have been quite all right. But I never loved her and, since
she loved me, it must have hurt her no end to discover that she was
merely receiving the crumbs from Anita's table.
However, it is too late to think about such things now. Even if we had
known, I doubt if we could have prevented what happened. Before either
of us realized quite what was happening, we found ourselves stretched
full-length on a secluded strip of lawn, protected by the enveloping
darkness. Gilberte's uniform was unfastened at the breast and my cheek
rested on her satiny flesh. I became suffused with a warm glow and
the intoxicating belief that nothing mattered but this one very human
moment. I kissed her on the mouth--the first time I had ever done so.
She responded by tightening her grip and literally melting to me. I
removed one arm from under her and in a few seconds nothing--not a
shred of clothing--separated us.
"I love you, Gilberte," I moaned again and again.
But, even at that time, while I held a woman in my arms for the first
time in almost two years, I knew I was lying. But, somehow, that seemed
the only proper thing to say.
The greater portion of the A.E.F. sailed for home on the Leviathan and
other ships late in March of 1919; but I was still in no condition to
make such a long trip. I'd sit in my wheel-chair, staring off into
space, and think about Anita--how she was, what she was doing, and
wondering why she didn't answer my letters.
It was my custom to write her each week. Gilberte provided me with
paper and pen and ink; and later she would take the letters to post
when she went off duty. I remember the first time I handed her a
finished letter she glanced curiously at the name and the address.
"Your mothair?" she asked in her broken English.
"No," I replied, not realizing I was being cruel, "my wife." And not
satisfied with that, I pulled out the picture of Anita I always carried
in my breast pocket. "How do you like her, Gilberte? Isn't she lovely?"
She took the picture from my hand and studied it intently. There was a
look in her eyes like some hurt animal and instantly I was ashamed of
myself. Knowing how the girl felt about me, I should have known better.
"Vairy nize," she murmured and returned it. I saw a tell-tale sparkle
under her lowered lids.
Now please don't think for a minute that I am manufacturing this story
out of whole cloth. I can find no explanation for her misguided
affections. I certainly did nothing to inspire them. The only
observation I might truthfully make is that love is mighty strange
and ofttimes somewhat silly. But to prove that Mademoiselle Monet was
a real person and not a figment of a distorted imagination, you have
only to look up the transcript of my trial in Tompkins County. One of
the prosecution's major exhibits was a letter in the French language,
addressed to me and signed by her. I never found out what the letter
contained until I heard it translated in open court. Yes, it was a love
letter. I ought to know, because it helped to convict me.
Gilberte showed her love for me in a way to which I could not possibly
object. She did not try to kiss me, caress me or hug me; and pray do
not imagine nightly assignations after the other patients in the ward
were asleep; she was just over-kind and ever willing to go out of her
way to please me. When she spoke of her love at all, it was quietly and
in her own language, which I could not understand. Of course, there was
no mistaking the meaning of her words. Behind them whispered something
else--an international esperanto which no one could fail to have
recognized.
And if, while she administered my sponge-baths, she lingered a little
longer than was strictly necessary, what was so wrong in that? She
liked to fuss over me like some mother with a child. In the garden
on some of the nights when we were alone, she'd lean her head on my
shoulder or carry one of my hands to her breast. It was done so sweetly
and so lacking in the frenzied sex quality that endowed many of the
other women nurses in the hospital, that I was deeply moved. I daresay
had I not already lost my heart to Anita ... but that's the way it was.
Have I made myself clear? Except for that night during the early
spring, there was nothing between us. And it was not Gilberte's fault
that there happened even that. If anyone was the aggressor--it was I.
Do not, please, get the impression that she egged me on. Her love was
on a higher plane and sex was not paramount. I still have the feeling
that I soiled something, strode ruthlessly across a priceless tapestry
with muddy shoes.
Now, I often regret that I didn't find out more about Nurse Monet; but
at the time, you can understand, my mind was flooded with thoughts of
my wife and her picture blotted out everything else or threw them out
of perspective. As it was, I merely tolerated Gilberte. She was merely
an audience attending a nightly eulogy of Anita. Knowing where I stand
now, I am sorry that I paid her so little attention. I must have been
exceedingly cruel; especially do I regret taking her. If, by some
chance, she ever comes across this book, I hope that she will believe
me when I say that I will always hold her memory very dear. I get a
little comfort by telling myself that, although she was a few years
older than myself, she was still a young woman and I, probably, was
merely a fleeting fancy.
But to continue, it was not for several months that I found out
Gilberte was not mailing my letters to Anita. This made me very angry
because, you remember, my company had been recorded as wiped out and
Anita had no way of knowing that I was still alive. I found out one
afternoon when Gilberte was shifting her quarters. The other nurses
were lending her a hand with the heavier paraphernalia. I would have
liked to have helped her myself, because I was very fond of Gilberte,
but I was permitted only to sit in my wheel-chair out in the corridor
and watch the proceedings.
The lid of her trunk was open as they staggered out into the hall with
it. The letters were in the tray--all of them--tied neatly into a
packet. At first I only stared at them in astonishment. There could be
no mistaking my peculiar style of penmanship. And as the trunk passed
my chair, I got a chance to inspect them at closer range. None of them
had been opened.
I am thankful that I had both the control and the good taste to
wait until the moving was over and the other nurses had gone before
confronting Gilberte with my discovery. At first she denied it
vigorously; but when I rolled myself into her new room and took the
packet from the trunk to wave it in front of her nose, she began to
cry.
"Why did you do it?" I demanded furiously. "Answer me, you little
sneak!"
I am sure she didn't understand what I was saying and this made me
angrier than ever. My temper completely got the better of me and I did
something I had never dreamed of doing to a woman before: I struck her
across the mouth with the back of my hand.
Poor woman, if only I could erase the mark of that blow! If only there
was something, some sort of antidote for the deeds we do in this world
without thinking! What she had done she had only done because she loved
me. Probably I would have done the same, had I been in her position.
But it was several hours before I cooled off and realized this.
That very night I wrote to Anita again. This time I posted the letter
myself. The staff raised a frightful rumpus when they discovered I had
wheeled myself all the way into the village to the postmaster, and, I
must admit, not without just cause. I returned to the hospital totally
spent and for the following two weeks I had to be confined to my bed.
Throughout this brief relapse, Nurse Monet continued to care for me.
I don't think that she bore me any grudge for my having struck her.
Nevertheless, I found out later that she had put in an application for
a change of ward and been refused.
Before I was finally discharged from the hospital I wrote some ten
or twelve letters to Anita and received two in reply. I am still in
possession of them. The paper on which they are written is yellowed
with the years and the ink has faded until the writing is almost
illegible. Intrinsically they are worth nothing; however, I think that
if I copy them here, they might explain themselves and also how I
felt when I first read them. In this way I might possibly be able to
transfer to you the intangible mental unrest I suffered because of them.
The first was a short note, written in a great hurry on a piece of
Ithaca Hotel stationery. It ran: