"MISSING"
JANUARY 1, 1918.--I came up to my room tonight, thinking I'd start the
New Year by bringing this record up to date; but when I look back on the
long five months to be filled in, the task seems hopeless. It was
Thanksgiving before Mr. Sammy was able to come back to work. Since then
I've had shorter hours at the office, because they don't have so much
work for a stenographer in the winter, but the extra time outside has
been taken up by one breathless chase after another. When it isn't
selling Liberty Bonds it is distributing leaflets about food
conservation and the crime of wasting. Or it's a drive for a million
more Red Cross members or a hurry call for surgical dressings. Then
every minute in between it's knit, knit, knit everlastingly.
Barby did not come home Christmas, and we did not keep the day for
ourselves. We had our hands full doing for the families of the fishermen
who were drowned last summer, and for the boys at the front and in the
camps at home. I hope Richard got his box all right, and that Doctor
John Wynne enjoyed the one Tippy packed for him, and the round-robin
letter that Miss Susan and some of the Wellfleet people sent him. They
started on their way before Thanksgiving.
I saw "Cousin James" a few minutes to-day. He came down to take a look
at his premises. The bungalow has been boarded up ever since last fall,
when he joined the class of "a dollar a year" men, working for the
government. We had such a good time talking about Richard. He's so
optimistic about the war ending soon, that he left me feeling more
light-hearted than I've been for months. It will, indeed, be a happy New
Year if it brings us peace.
* * * * *
WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY. Shades of Valley Forge! What a winter this is! It
will go down in history with its wheatless and meatless days, and now
that the fuel shortage is pinching all classes of people alike, the ant
as well as the grasshopper, the heatless days make the situation almost
hopeless.
Tippy and I are living mostly in the kitchen now, because we are nearly
at the end of our coal supply, and the railroads are not able to bring
in any more. The open wood fires make little impression on the general
iciness of the house. I am sitting up in my room to-night with furs and
arctics on, and a big lamp burning to supplement the efforts of a little
coal-oil heater. With all that it's so cold that I can see my breath. My
fingers are so numb that I can scarcely manage my pen, but I must make a
note of the news which came to-day. It's about Doctor Wynne.
In January Tippy had a letter from him, a charmingly written account of
Christmas in the trenches, and a grateful acknowledgment of the box and
the letter. This morning a small package came to me, addressed in a
strange hand. An English nurse sent it. Inside she wrote:
"Captain John Wynne asked me to send you the enclosed. He was in this
hospital three weeks, and died last night from the effect of injuries
received in doing one of the bravest things the war has yet called
forth. He faced what seemed to be instant and inevitable death to avert
an explosion that would have killed his Major and many men with him. In
the attempt he was so badly wounded that it was thought he could not
live to reach the hospital. But maimed and shattered as he was, he lived
until last night.
"He was one of the most efficient surgeons we had at the front, and one
of the best beloved. His fortitude through his time of intense suffering
was a marvel to the whole hospital staff, accustomed as we are to nurse
brave men. It really seemed as if he were sustained by some power other
than mere human endurance, some strength of the spirit few mortals
attain.
"It was a source of regret to all who knew of his case that the
decoration awarded him did not arrive until after he lapsed into
unconsciousness. But he knew he was to receive it. His Colonel told him
he was to have the highest award for valor that your country bestows. He
had already told me what disposition to make of his effects, and when I
asked him in regard to the expected decoration he gave me your address
whispering, 'She will know.'"
I _did_ know. It is hanging now where he knew I would put it. This
afternoon when I came home I brought with me a little gold star to take
the place of the blue one on the service flag under his mother's
picture. And over it I hung the medal--that other star, bronze and
laurel-wreathed, with its one word "Valor," surmounted by its eagle and
its bit of ribbon.
Tippy, watching me, suddenly buried her face in her apron and went out
of the room, crying as I have never seen her cry before. I knew it
wasn't the thought that he was gone which hurt her so keenly. It was the
fact that the little token of his country's appreciation reached him
too late. He missed the comfort of it himself, and there was no one of
his own left to know the honor done him and to take pride in it.
I had been feeling the hurt of it myself, ever since the news came. But
it left me as I stood there, looking at the pictures in the little
antique frame. The winter sunset, streaming red across the icicles
outside the western window, touched everything in the room with a tinge
of rose. It lighted up both faces, and, as I looked at his, I whispered
through tears:
"What does a little guerdon matter to a soul like yours, John Wynne? The
deed was all you cared for." And when I looked into his mother's face
and recalled what the nurse had written, I dried my eyes and smiled into
her eyes, that were looking so steadfastly out at me. I _knew_ she had
helped him at the last. In some way her comfort had been with him, as
the hosts "were round about Elisha in the mountain."
* * * * *
ST. PATRICK'S DAY. March came in like a lion, but we're comfortable now,
thank goodness, in spite of the fact that the winds are still keen and
there is much ice in the harbor. The coal cars reached town at last, and
the big base-burner in the hall sends waves of delicious warmth all
through the house. This past winter has been a nightmare of discomfort
for nearly everybody.
Babe says her experiences since 1918 set in would make the angels weep.
She's been doing the housekeeping since New Year, because her mother
simply cannot adjust herself to war conditions. Mrs. Dorsey announced
that she was born extravagant and it wasn't her nature to save, but if
Babe thought it was her duty and was willing to undertake it, she'd put
up with the results no matter how harrowing. They get along pretty well
when Mr. Dorsey is off on his trips, but I imagine harrowing is the
right word for it when he's at home. He simply won't eat cornbread, and
he swears at the mere sight of meat substitutes, such as mock turkey
made of beans and peanut butter and things.
Babe, having married into the Navy, feels that she is under special
obligation to Hooverize to the limit. She wants to end the war as soon
as possible on Watson's account. In fact, she makes such a personal
matter of it that she's getting herself disliked in some parts of town,
and some people seem to think she is in a way responsible for the whole
thing. A Portuguese woman asked Tippy the other day how long she
supposed that "Mrs. Tucker's war" was going to last. She said Babe is
down in their back yards every few days, looking into their slop-pails
and scolding something fierce if she finds the potato parings thicker
than she says they can be. Poor Babe! Between the demands of her
patriotism and the demands of her difficult parents she is almost
distracted at times.
I wish I could write down in these pages all the funny things that
happen. Never a day goes by, either at the office or the Red Cross
work-rooms, that something amusing doesn't come up. But by the time I've
told it in one letter for Barby to pass on to Father, and in another to
make Richard laugh, I haven't the patience to write it all out again
here. The consequence is I'm afraid I've given the wrong impression of
these last few months. One would think there have been no good times, no
good cheer. That it's been all work and grim duty. But such is not the
case. My letters will testify to that, and it's only because so much
time and energy have gone into them that things have to be crowded into
a few brief paragraphs in this book.
Despite all the gruesomeness of war and my separation from my family, I
am so busy that I'm really and truly happy from morning till night. I
enjoy my work at the office and my work at home and all the kinds of
war-work that come my way. It's a satisfaction merely to turn out clean,
well-typed pages, but it's bliss unalloyed to know that the money I'm
getting for doing it is going to buy bread and bullets to bring about
the downfall of the Kaiser.
Sometimes when old Mr. Sammy is feeling especially hopeful and there's
nobody in the office but me, he begins to hum an old camp-meeting tune
that they sing at his church:
"Coming bye and bye, coming bye and bye!
A better day is dawning, the morning draweth nigh."
I join in with a convincing alto, and afterwards we say what a glorious
old world this will be when that day really gets here. "When Johnny
comes marching home again, hurrah," the war won and the world made a
safe place for everybody. How lovely it will be just to draw a full
breath and settle down and _live_.
At such times it seems such a grand privilege to have even the smallest
share in bringing that victory about, that he's all but shouting when we
get through talking, and I've accumulated enough enthusiasm to send me
through the next week with a whoop. Sometimes if there isn't anything to
do right then in the office, I turn from the desk and look out of the
window, with eyes that see far beyond the harbor to the happy dawning
we've been singing about.
I see Richard ... climbing the Green Stairs ... coming into the little
home we furnished together in fancy ... the little Dream-home where I've
spent so many happy hours since. I can see the smile in his dear eyes as
he holds his arms out to me ... having earned the right to make all our
dreams come true ... having fought the good fight ... and kept the faith
... that all homes may be safe and sacred everywhere the wide world
over....
When one can dream dreams like that, one can put up with "the long, long
night of waiting," knowing it will have such a heavenly ending.
APRIL 6, 1918. One year ago to-day the United States
declared----
I had written only that far last Saturday night when I looked up to see
Tippy standing in the door holding out the evening paper. I felt as I
heard her coming along the hall that something was the matter. She
walked so hesitatingly. Something in her face seemed to make my heart
stand still, and stopped the question I started to ask. She didn't seem
to be able to speak, just spread the paper on the table in front of me
and pointed to something. Her finger was shaking. The four black words
she pointed to seemed to leap up into my face as I read them:
"_Lieutenant Richard Moreland, Missing._"
Those four black words have been in front of my eyes ever since. They
were in the official announcement that "Cousin James" brought down next
day. He had been notified as next of kin.
[Illustration: "Lieutenant Richard Moreland Missing"]
At first they seemed more bearable than if they'd said killed or
seriously wounded. I didn't quite grasp the full meaning of "missing."
But I do now. I heard "Cousin James" say in a low tone to Tippy, out in
the hall, something about death being more merciful than falling alive
into the hands of the Germans. He told her some of the things they do. I
know he's afraid that Richard has been taken prisoner.
He keeps telling me that we mustn't be down-hearted. That we must go on
hoping as hard as we can that everything will turn out all right. The
War Department is doing its best to trace him, and if he's a prisoner
we'll spare no expense and effort to get food through to him. They
always treat aviators with more consideration than other soldiers, and I
mustn't worry. But he doesn't look one bit the way he talks. His face
is so haggard that I know he's frightened sick.
Barby is, too, or she wouldn't have come all the way home to tell me the
very same things that he did. She wants to take me back to Washington
with her till we have farther news. She's cabled to Father. I know they
all think it's strange that I take it so quietly, but I've felt numb and
dazed ever since those four black words leaped up at me from the paper.
I wish they wouldn't be so tender with me and so solicitous for my
comfort. It's exactly the way they'd act if Richard were dead. I'm glad
"Cousin James" went right back. He looked at me the way Tippy does, as
if she pities me so that it breaks her heart. She doesn't know what her
face shows. None of them realize that their very efforts to be cheerful
and comforting show that their hopefulness is only make-believe.
[Illustration]