I’M AFRAID
Oddly enough, when Norma had conceived the idea of depicting _The
Spirit of Seventy-six_, and had gone about the task of selecting her
fife player and drummers, she had discovered that in all the company
there were but two drummers, Rosa and Lena.
At first she hesitated to ask Lena to play the part for, to say the
least, their relations had been none too cordial. In the end she had
swallowed her pride and made the request.
“Oh, sure!” Lena had agreed. “I think it will be loads of fun!”
In the end, with her long legs encased in knee-length stockings and
short breeches and with a white wig, she had played the part of a
Revolutionary grandfather superbly. As for Rosa, she had been every
inch a boy. A girl named Mary played the fife.
And so it happened that it was in the company of Lena, Rosa, Betty, and
Millie that shortly after the breakup of the parade Norma found herself
tramping toward the main chapel. Her father had been taken on an
inspection of the grounds.
The company in which these girls at last found themselves was a
thousand strong. These girls had all completed their training and in
two or three more days would scatter north, south, east, and west to
take up the tasks for which they had been trained.
“It’s going to be swell!” Lena exclaimed. “We’re headed for the coast!”
“The coast!” Norma stared. “How do you know?”
“Haven’t you been told?” Millie exclaimed. “We’ve all been told. We’re
to be part of an Interceptor Control—catch planes that are coming to
bomb us.”
“Or spies that try to land from submarines,” Rosa exclaimed. “It will
be thrilling and dangerous, I guess.”
“Only thing is,” Millie pouted, “I’m afraid there won’t be many
soldiers there.”
“Soldiers?” Norma stared at her.
“Well, you do like a date now and then,” Millie drawled. “You get
awfully lonesome when you don’t.”
At that they all laughed.
“Honest, haven’t you been told?” Betty asked when she had Norma by
herself.
“Not yet,” was the slow reply.
“Oh! I know!” Betty exclaimed. “They’re going to send you to officers’
training school! Some people have all the luck!”
“Do they?” Norma said. Truth was, she was tired.
The thousand WACs now streaming into the chapel were being assembled
for a final word from the top-ranking officers of the camp before they
went out to their work.
“Where do you suppose we’ll be sent?” Norma heard one girl ask as she
took her seat.
“Perhaps North Africa,” someone whispered.
“Surely not just like that!” was the surprised reply.
“A lot of WACs landed there just last Sunday. I saw it in the paper.
And did they have thrills going over! Heard the siren telling of
prowling subs, felt the thud of depth bombs, and—”
“Shish!” the girl’s friend whispered. “You’re almost shouting!”
“All the same they had a grand time! Danced with soldiers on deck, and
all that. Right over there in Africa now. Girls! Tell me how I can get
to go!”
Then all at once the khaki-clad throng was silent. The ranking officers
were mounting the platform. In a silent salute, the girls all rose.
When the Lieutenant Colonel in charge of the post, the commanding
officer and two officers Norma did not at once recognize were seated,
they all sat down.
The Lieutenant Colonel rose. “Fellow soldiers of America,” she began.
Norma was thrilled. “You have assembled here in order that we may give
you a final greeting and farewell. During your four weeks of training
you have conducted yourselves like soldiers. You will shortly be going
to your various posts of duty. Your country looks to you for service,
faithfulness to your task, and loyalty. We know you will not fail.”
“No—no—no. We will not fail!” came in an inaudible whisper. Had one
woman, or a hundred, said it? No one knew. It was enough that an
electric thrill passed over the room.
“On such an occasion as this,” the Colonel went on, “it has been
customary for the commanding officer or myself to give you a brief talk
in an effort to acquaint you with that which lies ahead. This afternoon
we have delegated that task to one who, not so many months ago, went
through her baptism of fire in Flanders Field.
“Lieutenant Warren,”—she turned about—“will you be so kind as to tell
these young women what it really means to be a WAC?”
As Lieutenant Warren rose, the Colonel said:
“Some of you know Lieutenant Warren. To those of you who do not know
her, may I say that during the fall of Holland, Belgium, and France
Miss Warren drove an Ann Morgan Ambulance, evacuating old men, women,
and children from those unfortunate lands, and that the medal pinned
upon her breast is a Croix de Guerre presented to her by a grateful
nation.”
There was a rustle in the audience. Someone sprang to her feet.
Instantly they were all on their feet in silent tribute to a member of
their own ranks who had seen service on the bloody fields of France.
“My Lieutenant!” Norma whispered chokingly. At that instant she knew
that she would gladly follow this leader round the world.
“Tonight,” she thought as she sank again into her seat, “Father and I
are to dine with her. What a privilege!” She wondered what would be
said at that dinner. And then the speech began.
Lieutenant Warren spoke slowly, distinctly. Norma caught every word and
yet her voice never rose to a high pitch. She spoke at length of what
she had seen, little of what she had done. Speaking of the enemy planes
she said:
“They swooped low over roads that were crowded with carts drawn by
horses or weary old men, and two-wheel carts pushed by women and
children.
“These people were refugees. Driven from their homes, they were trying
to save a little of that which they had once owned, for they had always
been poor.
“But those enemy pilots!” There was biting anger in her low voice.
“They came swooping down to shower machine-gun bullets upon these
defenseless people.
“What did they want? To clog the road with helpless and innocent women
and children so their armies might more easily destroy the defeated
soldiers.”
As the speaker paused for breath, Norma stole a glance at her
companions. Millie and Rosa were leaning forward, lips parted, eyes
wide, drinking in every word. Betty sat well back in her seat,
listening as one listens who has heard many rare speeches, yet there
was on her face a look that said:
“This is real, though it is terrible. I shall not forget it.”
But Lena? Norma was startled. There was on her face a look as cold as
marble.
Without knowing why, at sight of that face Norma suddenly felt terribly
afraid. This mood passed quickly, for again Lieutenant Warren was
speaking.
“We worked hour after hour, day after day, without sleep. On our
ambulances we carried white-haired men whose legs had been shot away,
mothers whose children had perished, children who had lost their
mothers forever, and babies—tiny babies in cribs, in blankets.” Her
voice broke.
Then standing tall and straight, with the medal gleaming on her breast,
she said:
“Hate! Terrible hate did all this! It is for you and me to take the
places of brave young men who are eager to help put down this terrible
enemy and to silence their machine guns forever. Are we going to do it?”
Instantly there came a cry that was like the roar of the sea. “Yes!
Yes! Yes!”
But Norma stole a look at Lena’s face.
Then, as if afraid she might leave a picture too terrible for all these
young minds, Lieutenant Warren went back to the days before the defeat
of France. She painted pictures of friendly villages in France. The
grocer, the baker, the aged shoemaker, and all the little farmers—they
were all there.
“These,” she went on quietly, “are the people we are fighting for—the
good, kindly, simple common people. In France, Belgium, the
Netherlands, in Poland—all over Europe they are starving slaves today.
We are fighting that they may be made free and that our own people
shall never be enslaved.”
Then she told of those good, brave days in unoccupied France, when a
great general had pinned the _Croix de Guerre_ on her blouse and all
the good people had wept.
All in all Norma thought it the grandest speech she had ever heard.
Once again as the speaker resumed her seat the audience rose to its
feet in a silent ovation.
Then someone swept her hands softly over the organ keys, and they sang
as they had never sung it before: “Oh say, can you see!”
As the last note died away, Norma stole a look at Lena’s face. It was
cold, gray, and hard as steel. She had not been singing.
When, at last, dry-eyed but determined, Norma left the room she
whispered, “Betty, I’m afraid.”
“Afraid? Why?” Betty asked.
“I don’t know—just afraid, that’s all.”
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