"He gave his name as John Donaldson," stated the boy.
"What!" I asked bewildered. "This man in Italy was called----"
"By my name," the boy said slowly. "John Donaldson."
I reasoned a bit. "John Donaldson" is a name not impossible to be
duplicated. "It was devilish odd," I said, "to run into your own handle
like that, wasn't it?"
The boy went on. "At that second Ted Frith ran along shouting, '7:30.
Better hurry. Coffee's waiting.' So I threw the strange man a good-bye
and bolted.
"That day we were going some. They were heaving eggs from the other
side of the Piave and we were bringing back wounded to the dressing
stations as fast as we could make it over that wrecked land; going back
faster for more. When I stopped for chow at midday, I found Ted Frith
near me, eating also.
"'Remember the old boy you were talking to this morning?' asked Ted
between two mouthfuls of dum-dums--that's beans, Uncle Bill. I 'lowed I
remembered the old boy; in fact he'd stuck in my mind all day.
"'Well,' Ted went on, 'he's a ring-tailed snorter. He's got an American
uniform, tin derby and all, and he's up in the front trenches in the
cold and mud with his chocolates and stuff, talking the lingo to the
wops and putting heart into them something surprising. They're cheering
up wherever he goes. Good work.'
"That afternoon I ran into the man under hot fire hurrying down the
communication trench for more stuff. He looked as pleased as a boy with
a new pony. 'Hello,' I yelled across the noise. 'How do you like our
Italy? They tell me you're helping a lot.'
"He stopped and stared with those queerly homelike, big eyes. 'Do
they?' he smiled. 'It's the best time I've had for years, sir.'
"'Needn't _sir_ me,' I explained. 'I'm not an officer.'
"'Ah, but you are--my superior officer,' he argued in a courteous,
lovely way. 'I'm a recruit--raw recruit. Certainly I must say _sir_, to
you.'
"'Duck there,' I shouted. 'You're on a rise--you'll be hit.'
"He glanced around. 'If you knew what a treat I'd consider it to be
done for wearing this.' He looked down and slapped his big knee in its
khaki. 'But if I'm helping, it's the game to keep whole. You see, sir,'
and he laughed out loud--'this is my good day. I'm American to-day,
sir!'
"And as I let in the clutch and turned the wheel, I sniffled. The man's
delight at being allowed to do a turn of any sort under the flag got
me.
"The hideous day wore on; one of the worst I went through. We were
rushing 'em steadily--four badly wounded in the back you know, and one
who could sit up in the front seat with the driver, every trip. About
3:30 as I was going up to the front lines, I struck Ted Firth again
coming down.
"'That you, Johnny?' he shouted as we jammed together, and then: 'Your
friend's got his,' he said. We were caught in a crowd and had to wait,
so we could talk.
"'Oh no!' I groaned. 'Gone west?'
"He shook his head. 'I think not yet. But I'm afraid he's finished. Had
to leave him. Didn't see him till I was loaded up. He's been
stretcher-bearer the last three hours.'
"'The devil he has. Why?'
"'A sudden attack--bearer was killed. He jumped in and grabbed the
stretcher. Powerful old boy. Back and forth from the hurricane to the
little dressing station, and at last he got it. Thick to-day, isn't
it?'
"'Stretcher-bearer!' I repeated. 'Nerve for a new bird.'
"'Nerve!' echoed Teddy. 'He's been eating it up. The hotter it got, the
better it suited. He's one of the heroes fast enough. If he lives, he's
due a cross for his last stunt--out under fire twice in five minutes to
bring in wounded. But he won't live. There--it's clearing. You run
along and find the old boy, Johnny.'
"I found him. He was hurt too badly to talk about. As gently as we knew
how, Joe Barron and I lifted him into the car and he recognized me.
"'Why, good evening, sir,' he greeted me, smiling at the disputed
title, charming and casual as ever. He identified me--'The boy who
adored Italy.' Then: 'Such luck!' he gasped. 'Killed--in our
uniform--serving!' And as he felt my hand on his forehead: 'For God's
sake don't be sorry, lad,' he begged. 'A great finish for me. I never
hoped for luck like this.'
"There's a small village," the boy went on--"I never knew its name;
it's back of the Piave; only a pile of broken stuff now anyhow. But the
church was standing that night, a lovely old church with a tower
pierced with windows. We stuck in a traffic jam in front of that
church. The roads were one solid column going forward into the mess.
Mile after mile of it in one stream--and every parallel road must have
been the same.
"It got dark early and the ration truck was late coming up, being
caught in the jam. It was night by the time the eats were ready and I
left my bus in front of the church I spoke of. I'd wished myself on the
officers of a battery having mess in trees back of a ruined house. When
I went back to the bus, it was clean dark. But the sky was alight with
gun flashes from everywhere, a continuous flicker like summer lightning
with glares here and there like a sudden blaze from a factory chimney.
The rumbling gun thunder was without a break, punctuated by heavier
boomings; the near guns seemed an insane 4th of July. I looked in at my
load and I saw that my namesake was worse. We were still trapped in the
jam; no chance of breaking for hours maybe. I saw then that they'd
turned the church into a dressing station. There was straw on the stone
floors and two surgeons and some orderlies. Wounded were being carried
in on stretchers. Joe Barron and I lifted out John Donaldson and took
him in and cared for him as well as possible until we could corral an
overworked doctor. I thought I'd talk to him a bit to distract him, and
he seemed glad to have me."
The lad stopped; his big fingers pulled at the collar of his uniform.
"Little by little," he went on, "John Donaldson of Italy told his
story. He held tight to my hand as he told it." The boy halted again
and bit at his lower lip with strong white teeth. "I like to remember
that," he went on slowly. "He had lived nearly twenty years in Perugia.
He had run away from America. Because--he--took money. Quite a lot of
money. He--was supposed to be dead."
I sat forward, grasping the sides of my chair, pulling the thing out of
the boy with straining gaze.
"Uncle Bill," he spoke, and his dear voice shook, "you know who it was.
I found why his eyes looked familiar. They were exactly like my own.
The man I was helping to die was my father."
I heard my throat make a queer sound, but I said no word. The voice
flowed on, difficultly, determinedly.
"It's a strange thing to remember--a weird and unearthly bit of
living--that war-ruined church, strewn with straw, the wounded wrapped
like mummies in dark blankets, their white bandages making high spots
in the wavering, irregular lights of lanterns and pocket flashes moving
about. I sat on the pavement by his side, hand in hand. A big crucifix
hung above, and the Christ seemed to be looking--at him."
The voice stopped. I heard my own as a sound from beyond me asking a
question. "How did you find out?" I asked.
"Why, you see, Uncle Bill," he answered, as if my voice had helped him
to normality a bit, "I started off by saying I'd write to anybody for
him, and wasn't there somebody at home maybe? And he smiled out of his
torture, and said 'Nobody.'
"Then I said how proud we were of such Americans as he had shown
himself and how much he'd helped. I told him what Teddy Frith said of
how he'd put heart into the men. And about the war cross. At that his
face brightened.
"'Did he really say I'd helped?' He was awfully pleased. Then he
considered a moment and spoke: 'There's one lad I'd like to have
know--if it's possible to find him--and if he ever knows anything about
me--that I died decently.'
"I threw at him--little dreaming the truth, yet eagerly--'I'll find
him. I promise it. What's his name?'
"And he smiled again, an alluring, sidewise smile he had, and said:
'Why, the same name as mine--John Donaldson. He was my baby.'
"Then for the first time the truth came in sight, and my heart stood
still. I couldn't speak. But I thought fast. I feared giving him a
shock, yet I had to know--I had to tell him. I put my free hand over
his that clung to me and I said: 'Do you know, Mr. Donaldson, it's
queer, but that's my name too. I also am John Donaldson.'
"He turned his head with a start and his eyes got wide. 'You are?' he
said, and he peered at me in the half light. 'I believe you look like
me. God!' he said. His face seemed to sharpen and he shot words at me.
'Quick!' he said. 'I mayn't have time. What was your mother's name?'
"I told him.
"He was so still for a breath that I thought I'd killed him. Then his
face lighted--quite angelically, Uncle Bill. And he whispered, two or
three words at a time--you know the words, Uncle Bill--Tennyson:
"'Sunset and evening star' he whispered:
"'Sunset and evening star,
"'And one clear call for me----'
"He patted the breast of his bloody, grimy uniform. 'Following the
flag! Me! My son to hold my hand as I go out! I hadn't dreamed of such
a passing.' Then he looked up at me, awfully interested. 'So you're my
big son,' he said. 'My baby.'
"I knew that he was remembering the little shaver he'd left twenty
years back. So I leaned over and kissed him, and he got his arm around
my neck and held me pretty tight a minute, and nobody cared. All those
dying, suffering, last-ditch men lying around, and the two worn-out
doctors hurrying among 'em--they didn't care. No more did he and I. I'd
found my father; I wasn't caring for anything else."
There was deep silence in the room again and a log of the fire crackled
and fell apart and blazed up impersonally; the pleasant sound jarred
not at all the tense, human atmosphere.
"And he----! Uncle Bill," went on the throbbing voice, "through the
devilish pain he was radiant. He was, thank God! I wanted to hold up a
doctor and get dope to quiet him--and he wouldn't.
"'It might make me unconscious,' he objected. 'Would I lose a minute of
you? Not if I know it! This is the happiest hour I've had for twenty
years.'
"He told me, a bit at a time, about things. First how he'd arranged so
that even my mother thought him dead. Then the bald facts of his
downfall. He hated to tell that.
"'Took money,' he said. 'Very unjustifiable. But I ought to have had
plenty--life's most unreasonable. Then--I couldn't face--discovery--hate,
unpleasantness.' He shuddered. 'Might have been--jailed.' It was
shaking him so I tried to stop him, but he pointed to his coat and
laughed--Uncle Bill, a pitiful laugh. It tore me. 'John Donaldson's
making a good getaway,' he labored out. 'Must tell everything. I'll
finish--clean. To--my son. Honor of--the uniform.' He was getting
exhausted. 'That's all,' he ended, 'Dishonor.'
"And I flung at him: 'No--no. It's covered over--wiped out--with
service and honor. You're dying for the flag, father--father!' I
whispered with my arms around him and crying like a child with a
feeling I'd never known before. 'Father, father!' I whispered, and he
lifted a hand and patted my head.
"'That sounds nice,' he said. Suddenly he looked amused. His nerve all
through was the bulliest thing you ever saw, Uncle Bill. Not a whimper.
'You thought I was Italian,' he brought out. 'Years ago, this morning.
But--I'm not. American, sir--I heard the call--the one clear call.
American.'
"Then he closed his eyes and his breathing was so easy that I thought
he might sleep, and live hours, maybe. I loosened his fingers and
lifted his head on my coat that I'd folded for a pillow, for I thought
I'd go outside and find Joe Barron and get him to take the bus down
when the jam held up so I could start. Before I started, I bent over
again and he opened his eyes, and I said very distinctly: 'I want you
to know that I'll be prouder all my life than words can say that I've
had you for a father,' and he brought out a long, perfectly contented
sigh, and seemed to drop off.
"I began to pick my way through the clutter of men lying, some still as
death, some writhing and gurgling horrid sounds. I had got about eight
feet when across the hideous noises broke a laugh like a pleased kid. I
whirled. He'd lifted his big shoulders up from the straw and was
laughing after me from under those thick black lashes; his eyes were
brilliant. He stretched out his arms to me.
"'American, sir,' he said in a strong voice. And fell back dead."
I heard the clock tick and tick. And tick. Minutes went by. Then the
boy got up in the throbbing silence and walked to the fire and stood,
his back to me, looking down at the embers. His voice came over his
square young shoulders, difficult but determined, as of a man who must
say a thing which has dogged him to be said.
"God arranged it, Uncle Bill. I know that well enough. God forgave him
enough to send him me and a happy day to go out on. So don't you
believe--that things are all right with him now?"
It was hard to speak, but I had to--I had a message. "John," I said,
"we two know the splendor of his going, and that other things count as
nothing beside that redemption. Do you suppose a great God is more
narrow-minded than we?"
And my boy turned, and came and sat on the broad side of the chair, and
put his arm around my shoulder and his young head against mine. His
cheek was hot and wet on my thin hair.
"American, sir," whispered my dear boy, softly.