by Zane Grey
What I want to dwell upon is my impression of something strange, unbalanced, incomprehensible, about the frank conduct of so many well-educated, refined, and good women I see; and about the eagerness, restlessness, the singular response of nice girls to situations that are not natural.
To-night a handsome, stylishly gowned woman of about thirty came up to me with a radiant smile and a strange brightness in her eyes. There were five hundred couples dancing on the floor, and the music and sound of sliding feet made it difficult to hear her. She said: “You handsome soldier boy! Come dance with me?” I replied politely that I did not dance. Then she took hold of me and said, “I’ll teach you.” I saw a wedding-ring on the hand she laid on my arm. Then I looked straight at her, “Madam, very soon I’ll be learning the dance of death over in France, and my mind’s concerned with that.” She grew red with anger. She seemed amazed. And she snapped, “Well, you are a queer soldier!” Later I watched her flirting and dancing with an officer.
Overtures and advances innumerable have been made to me, ranging from the assured possession-taking onslaught like this woman’s to the slight, subtle something, felt more than seen, of a more complex nature. And, Lenore, I blush to tell you this, but I’ve been mobbed by girls. They have a thousand ways of letting a soldier know! I could not begin to tell them. But I do not actually realize what it is that is conveyed, that I know; and I am positive the very large majority of soldiers misunderstand. At night I listen to the talks of my comrades, and, well — if the girls only heard! Many times I go out of hearing, and when I cannot do that I refuse to hear.
Lenore, I am talking about nice girls now. I am merciless. There are many girls like you — they seem like you, though none so pretty. I mean, you know, there are certain manners and distinctions that at once mark a really nice girl. For a month I’ve been thrown here and there, so that it seems I’ve seen as many girls as soldiers. I have been sent to different entertainments given for soldiers. At one place a woman got up and invited the girls to ask the boys to dance. At another a crowd of girls were lined up wearing different ribbons, and the boys marched along until each one found the girl wearing a ribbon to match the one he wore. That was his partner. It was interesting to see the eager, mischievous, brooding eyes of these girls as they watched and waited. Just as interesting was it to see this boy’s face when he found his partner was ugly, and that boy swell with pride when he found he had picked a “winner.” It was all adventure for both boys and girls. But I saw more than that in it. Whenever I could not avoid meeting a girl I tried to be agreeable and to talk about war, and soldiers, and what was going on. I did not dance, of course, and I imagine more than one girl found me a “queer soldier.”
It always has touched me, though, to see and feel the sweetness, graciousness, sympathy, kindness, and that other indefinable something, in the girls I have met. How they made me think of you, Lenore! No doubt about their hearts, their loyalty, their Americanism. Every soldier who goes to France can fight for some girl! They make you feel that. I believe I have gone deeper than most soldiers in considering what I will call war-relation of the sexes. If it is normal, then underneath it all is a tremendous inscrutable design of nature or God. If that be true, actually true, then war must be inevitable and right! How horrible! My thoughts confound me sometimes. Anyway, the point I want to make is this: I heard an officer tell an irate father, whose two daughters had been insulted by soldiers: “My dear sir, it is regrettable. These men will be punished. But they are not greatly to blame, because so many girls throw themselves at their heads. Your daughters did not, of course, but they should not have come here.” That illustrates the fixed idea of the military, all through the ranks — Women throw themselves at soldiers! It is true that they do. But the idea is false, nevertheless, because the mass of girls are misunderstood.
Misunderstood! — I can tell you why. Surely the mass of American girls are nice, fine, sweet, wholesome. They are young. The news of war liberates something in them that we can find no name for. But it must be noble. A soldier! The very name, from childhood, is one to make a girl thrill. What then the actual thing, the uniform, invested somehow with chivalry and courage, the clean-cut athletic young man, somber and fascinating with his intent eyes, his serious brow, or his devil-may-care gallantry, the compelling presence of him that breathes of his sacrifice, of his near departure to privation, to squalid, comfortless trenches, to the fire and hell of war, to blood and agony and death — in a word to fight, fight, fight for women!… So through this beautiful emotion women lose their balance and many are misunderstood. Those who would not and could not be bold are susceptible to advances that in an ordinary time would not affect them. War invests a soldier with a glamour. Love at first sight, flirtations, rash intimacies, quick engagements, immediate marriages. The soldier who is soon going away to fight and perhaps to die strikes hard at the very heart of a girl. Either she is not her real self then, or else she is suddenly transported to a womanhood that is instinctive, elemental, universal for the future. She feels what she does not know. She surrenders because there is an imperative call to the depths of her nature. She sacrifices because she is the inspiritor of the soldier, the reward for his loss, the savior of the race. If women are the spoils of barbarous conquerors, they are also the sinews, the strength, the soul of defenders.
And so, however you look at it, war means for women sacrifice, disillusion, heartbreak, agony, doom. I feel that so powerfully that I am overcome; I am sick at the gaiety and playing; I am full of fear, wonder, admiration, and hopeless pity for them.
No man can tell what is going on in the souls of soldiers while noble women are offering love and tenderness, throwing themselves upon the altar of war, hoping blindly to send their great spirits marching to the front. Perhaps the man who lives through the war will feel the change in his soul if he cannot tell it. Day by day I think I see a change in my comrades. As they grow physically stronger they seem to grow spiritually lesser. But maybe that is only my idea. I see evidences of fear, anger, sullenness, moodiness, shame. I see a growing indifference to fatigue, toil, pain. As these boys harden physically they harden mentally. Always, ‘way off there is the war, and that seems closely related to the near duty here — what it takes to make a man. These fellows will measure men differently after this experience with sacrifice, obedience, labor, and pain. In that they will become great. But I do not think these things stimulate a man’s mind. Changes are going on in me, some of which I am unable to define. For instance, physically I am much bigger and stronger than I was. I weigh one hundred and eighty pounds! As for my mind, something is always tugging at it. I feel that it grows tired. It wants to forget. In spite of my will, all of these keen desires of mine to know everything lag and fail often, and I catch myself drifting. I see and feel and hear without thinking. I am only an animal then. At these times sight of blood, or a fight, or a plunging horse, or a broken leg — and these sights are common — affects me little until I am quickened and think about the meaning of it all. At such moments I have a revulsion of feeling. With memory comes a revolt, and so on, until I am the distressed, inquisitive, and morbid person I am now. I shudder at what war will make me. Actual contact with earth, exploding guns, fighting comrades, striking foes, will make brutes of us all. It is wrong to shed another man’s blood. If life was meant for that why do we have progress? I cannot reconcile a God with all this horror. I have misgivings about my mind. If I feel so acutely here in safety and comfort, what shall I feel over there in peril and agony? I fear I shall laugh at death. Oh, Lenore, consider that! To laugh in the ghastly face of death! If I yield utterly to a fiendish joy of bloody combat, then my mind will fail, and that in itself would be evidence of God.
I do not read over my letters to you, I just write. Forgive me if they are not happier. Every hour I think of you. At night I see your face in the shadow of the tent wall. And I love you unutterably.
Faithfully,
Kurt Dorn.
Camp —�
� , November — ,
Dear Sister, — It’s bad news I’ve got for you this time. Something bids me tell you, though up to now I’ve kept unpleasant facts to myself.
The weather has knocked me out. My cold came back, got worse and worse. Three days ago I had a chill that lasted for fifteen minutes. I shook like a leaf. It left me, and then I got a terrible pain in my side. But I didn’t give in, which I feel now was a mistake. I stayed up till I dropped.
I’m here in the hospital. It’s a long shed with three stoves, and a lot of beds with other sick boys. My bed is far away from a stove. The pain is bad yet, but duller, and I’ve fever. I’m pretty sick, honey. Tell mother and dad, but not the girls. Give my love to all. And don’t worry. It’ll all come right in the end. This beastly climate’s to blame.
Later, — It’s night now. I was interrupted. I’ll write a few more lines. Hope you can read them. It’s late and the wind is moaning outside. It’s so cold and dismal. The fellow in the bed next to me is out of his head. Poor devil! He broke his knee, and they put off the operation — too busy! So few doctors and so many patients! And now he’ll lose his leg. He’s talking about home. Oh, Lenore! Home! I never knew what home was — till now.
I’m worse to-night. But I’m always bad at night. Only, to-night I feel strange. There’s a weight on my chest, besides the pain. That moan of wind makes me feel so lonely. There’s no one here — and I’m so cold. I’ve thought a lot about you girls and mother and dad. Tell dad I made good.
Jim
CHAPTER XXV
JIM’S LAST LETTER was not taken seriously by the other members of the Anderson family. The father shook his head dubiously. “That ain’t like Jim,” but made no other comment. Mrs. Anderson sighed. The young sisters were not given to worry. Lenore, however, was haunted by an unwritten meaning in her brother’s letter.
Weeks before, she had written to Dorn and told him to hunt up Jim. No reply had yet come from Dorn. Every day augmented her uneasiness, until it was dreadful to look for letters that did not come. All this fortified her, however, to expect calamity. Like a bolt out of the clear sky it came in the shape of a telegram from Camp —— saying that Jim was dying.
The shock prostrated the mother. Jim had been her favorite. Mr. Anderson left at once for the East. Lenore had the care of her mother and the management of “Many Waters” on her hands, which duties kept her mercifully occupied. Mrs. Anderson, however, after a day, rallied surprisingly. Lenore sensed in her mother the strength of the spirit that sacrificed to a noble and universal cause. It seemed to be Mrs. Anderson’s conviction that Jim had been shot, or injured by accident in gun-training, or at least by a horse. Lenore did not share her mother’s idea and was reluctant to dispel it. On the evening of the fifth day after Mr. Anderson’s departure a message came, saying that he had arrived too late to see Jim alive. Mrs. Anderson bore the news bravely, though she weakened perceptibly.
The family waited then for further news. None came. Day after day passed. Then one evening, while Lenore strolled in the gloaming, Kathleen came running to burst out with the announcement of their father’s arrival. He had telephoned from Vale for a car to meet him.
Not long after that, Lenore, who had gone to her room, heard the return of the car and recognized her father’s voice. She ran down in time to see him being embraced by the girls, and her mother leaning with bowed head on his shoulder.
“Yes, I fetched Jim — back,” he said, steadily, but very low. “It’s all arranged.… An’ we’ll bury him to-morrow.”
“Oh — dad!” cried Lenore.
“Hello, my girl!” he replied, and kissed her. “I’m sorry to tell you I couldn’t locate Kurt Dorn.… That New York — an’ that trainin’ camp!”
He held up his hands in utter futility of expression. Lenore’s quick eyes noted his face had grown thin and haggard, and she made sure with a pang that his hair was whiter.
“I’m sure glad to be home,” he said, with a heavy expulsion of breath. “I want to clean up an’ have a bite to eat.”
Lenore was so disappointed at failing to hear from Dorn that she did not think how singular it was her father did not tell more about Jim. Later he seemed more like himself, and told them simply that Jim had contracted pneumonia and died without any message for his folk at home. This prostrated Mrs. Anderson again.
Later Lenore sought her father in his room. He could not conceal from her that he had something heartrending on his mind. Then there was more than tragedy in his expression. Lenore felt a leap of fear at what seemed her father’s hidden anger. She appealed to him — importuned him. Plainer it came to her that he wanted to relieve himself of a burden. Then doubling her persuasions, she finally got him to talk.
“Lenore, it’s not been so long ago that right here in this room Jim begged me to let him enlist. He wasn’t of age. But would I let him go — to fight for the honor of our country — for the future safety of our home?… We all felt the boy’s eagerness, his fire, his patriotism. Wayward as he’s been, we suddenly were proud of him. We let him go. We gave him up. He was a part of our flesh an’ blood — sent by us Andersons — to do our share.”
Anderson paused in his halting speech, and swallowed hard. His white face twitched strangely and his brow was clammy. Lenore saw that his piercing gaze looked far beyond her for the instant that he broke down.
“Jim was a born fighter,” the father resumed. “He wasn’t vicious. He just had a leanin’ to help anybody. As a lad he fought for his little pards — always on the right side — an’ he always fought fair.… This opportunity to train for a soldier made a man of him. He’d have made his mark in the war. Strong an’ game an’ fierce, he’d … he’d … Well, he’s dead — he’s dead!… Four months after enlistment he’s dead.… An’ he never had a rifle in his hands! He never had his hands on a machine-gun or a piece of artillery!… He never had a uniform! He never had an overcoat! He never …”
Then Mr. Anderson’s voice shook so that he had to stop to gain control. Lenore was horrified. She felt a burning stir within her.
“Lemme get this — out,” choked Anderson, his face now livid, his veins bulging. “I’m drove to tell it. I was near all day locatin’ Jim’s company. Found the tent where he’d lived. It was cold, damp, muddy. Jim’s messmates spoke high of him. Called him a prince!… They all owed him money. He’d done many a good turn for them. He had only a thin blanket, an’ he caught cold. All the boys had colds. One night he gave that blanket to a boy sicker than he was. Next day he got worse.… There was miles an’ miles of them tents. I like to never found the hospital where they’d sent Jim. An’ then it was six o’clock in the mornin’ — a raw, bleak day that’d freeze one of us to the marrow. I had trouble gettin’ in. But a soldier went with me an’ — an’ …”
Anderson’s voice went to a whisper, and he looked pityingly at Lenore.
“That hospital was a barn. No doctors! Too early.… The nurses weren’t in sight. I met one later, an’, poor girl! she looked ready to drop herself!… We found Jim in one of the little rooms. No heat! It was winter there.… Only a bed!… Jim lay on the floor, dead! He’d fallen or pitched off the bed. He had on only his underclothes that he had on — when he — left home.… He was stiff — an’ must have — been dead — a good while.”
Lenore held out her trembling hands. “Dead — Jim dead — like that!” she faltered.
“Yes. He got pneumonia,” replied Anderson, hoarsely. “The camp was full of it.”
“But — my God! Were not the — the poor boys taken care of?” implored Lenore, faintly.
“It’s a terrible time. All was done that could be done!”
“Then — it was all — for nothing?”
“All! All! Our boy an’ many like him — the best blood of our country — Western blood — dead because … because …”
Anderson’s voice failed him.
“Oh, Jim! Oh, my brother!… Dead like a poor neglected dog! Jim — who enlisted to fight �
� for—”
Lenore broke down then and hurried away to her room.
With great difficulty Mrs. Anderson was revived, and it became manifest that the prop upon which she had leaned had been slipped from under her. The spirit which had made her strong to endure the death of her boy failed when the sordid bald truth of a miserable and horrible waste of life gave the lie to the splendid fighting chance Jim had dreamed of.
When Anderson realized that she was fading daily he exhausted himself in long expositions of the illness and injury and death common to armies in the making. More deaths came from these causes than from war. It was the elision of the weaker element — the survival of the fittest; and some, indeed very many, mothers must lose their sons that way. The government was sound at the core, he claimed; and his own rage was at the few incompetents and profiteers. These must be weeded out — a process that was going on. The gigantic task of a government to draft and prepare a great army and navy was something beyond the grasp of ordinary minds. Anderson talked about what he had seen and heard, proving the wonderful stride already made. But all that he said now made no impression upon Mrs. Anderson. She had made her supreme sacrifice for a certain end, and that was as much the boy’s fiery ambition to fight as it was her duty, common with other mothers, to furnish a man at the front. What a hopeless, awful sacrifice! She sank under it.
Those were trying days for Lenore, just succeeding her father’s return; and she had little time to think of herself. When the mail came, day after day, without a letter from Dorn, she felt the pang in her breast grow heavier. Intimations crowded upon her of impending troubles that would make the present ones seem light.