War Comes to the Big Bend

by Zane Grey

  I saw the sun set in the sea, away back toward the western horizon, where the thin, dark line that was land disappeared in the red glow. The wind blows hard. The water is rough, dark gray, and cold. I like the taste of the spray. Our boat rolls heavily and many boys are already sick. I do not imagine the motion will affect me. It is stuffy below deck. I’ll spend what time I can above, where I can see and feel. It was dark just now when I came below. And as I looked out into the windy darkness and strife I was struck by the strangeness of the sea and how it seemed to be like my soul. For a long time I have been looking into my soul, and I find such ceaseless strife, such dark, unlit depths, such chaos. These thoughts and emotions, always with me, keep me from getting close to my comrades. No, not me, but it keeps them away from me. I think they regard me strangely. They all talk of submarines. They are afraid. Some will lose sleep at night. But I never think of a submarine when I gaze out over the tumbling black waters. What I think of, what I am going after, what I need seems far, far away. Always! I am no closer now than when I was at your home. So it has not to do with distance. And, Lenore, maybe it has not to do with trenches or Germans.

  Wednesday.

  It grows harder to get a chance to write and harder for me to express myself. When I could write I have to work or am on duty; when I have a little leisure I am somehow clamped. This old chugging boat beats the waves hour after hour, all day and all night. I can feel the vibration when I’m asleep. Many things happen that would interest you, just the duty and play of the soldiers, for that matter, and the stories I hear going from lip to lip, and the accidents. Oh, so much happens. But all these rush out of my mind the moment I sit down to write. There is something at work in me as vast and heaving as the ocean.

  At first I had a fear, a dislike of the ocean. But that is gone. It is indescribable to stand on the open deck at night as we are driving on and on and on—to look up at the grand, silent stars that know, that understand, yet are somehow merciless—to look out across the starlit, moving sea. Its ceaseless movement at first distressed me; now I feel that it is perpetually moving to try to become still. To seek a level! To find itself! To quiet down to peace! But that will never be. And I think if the ocean is not like the human heart, then what is it like?

  This voyage will be good for me. The hard, incessant objective life, the physical life of a soldier, somehow comes to a halt on board ship. And every hour now is immeasurable for me. Whatever the mystery of life, of death, of what drives me, of why I cannot help fight the demon in me, of this thing called war—the certainty is that these dark, strange nights on the sea have given me a hope and faith that the truth is not utterly unattainable.

  Sunday.

  We’re in the danger zone now, with destroyers around us and a cruiser ahead. I am all eyes and ears. I lose sleep at night from thinking so hard. The ship doctor stopped me the other day—studied my face. Then he said: “You’re too intense. You think too hard . . . Are you afraid?” And I laughed in his face. “Absolutely no!” I told him. “Then forget . . . and mix with the boys. Play . . . cut up . . . fight . . . do anything but think!” That doctor is a good chap, but he doesn’t figure Kurt Dorn if he imagines the Germans can kill me by making me think.

  We’re nearing France now, and the very air is charged. An aeroplane came out to meet us—welcome us, I guess, and it flew low. The soldiers went wild. I never had such a thrill. That air game would just suit me, if I were fitted for it. But I’m no mechanic. Besides, I’m too big and heavy. My place will be in the front line with a bayonet. Strange how a bayonet fascinates me!

  They say we can’t write home anything about the war. I’ll write you something, whenever I can. Don’t be unhappy if you do not hear often—or if my letters cease to come. My heart and my mind are full of you. Whatever comes to me—the training over here—the going to the trenches—the fighting—I shall be safe if only I can remember you.

  With love,

  Kurt

  Lenore carried that letter in her bosom when she went out to walk in the fields, to go over the old ground she and Kurt had trod hand in hand. From the stone seat above the brook she watched the sunset. All was still except the murmur of the running water, and somehow she could not long bear that. As the light began to shade on the slopes, she faced them, feeling, as always, a strength come to her from their familiar lines. Twilight found her high above the ranch, and absolutely alone. She would have this lonely hour, and then all her mind and energy must go to what she knew was imperative duty. She would work to the limit of her endurance.

  It was an autumn twilight, with a cool wind, gray sky, and sad, barren slopes. The fertile valley seemed half obscured in melancholy haze, and over toward the dim hills beyond night had already fallen. No stars, no moon, no afterglow of sunset illumined the grayness that in this hour seemed prophetic of Lenore’s future.

  “‘Safe,’ he said. ‘I shall be safe if only I can remember you,’” she whispered to herself wonderingly. “What did he mean?”

  Pondering the thought, she divined it had to do with Dorn’s singular spiritual mood. He had gone to lend his body as so much physical brawn, so much weight, to a concerted movement of men, but his mind was apart from harmony with that. Lenore felt that whatever had been the sacrifice made by Kurt Dorn, it had been passed with his decision to go to war. What she prayed for then was something of his spirit.

  Slowly, in the gathering darkness, she descended the long slope. The approaching night seemed sad, with autumn song of insects. Out of it whispered an unfaltering faith. All about her breathed faith, from the black hills above, the gray slopes below, from the shadowy void, from the murmuring of insect life in the grass. The rugged fallow ground under her feet seemed to her to be a symbol of faith—faith that winter would come and pass—the spring sun and rain would burst the seeds of wheat—and another summer would see the golden fields of waving grain. If she did not live to see them, they would be there just the same, and so life and Nature had faith in its promise. That strange whisper was to Lenore the whisper of God.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Through the pale obscurity of a French night, cool, raw, moist, with a hint of spring in its freshness, a line of soldiers plodded along, the lonely, melancholy lanes. Wan starlight showed in the rifts between the clouds. Neither dark nor light, the midnight hour had its unreality in this line of marching men, and its reality in the dim, vague hedges, its spectral posts, its barren fields.

  Rain had ceased to fall, but a fine, cold, penetrating mist filled the air. The ground was muddy in places, slippery in others, and here and there it held pools of water ankle-deep. The stride of the marching men appeared short and dragging, without swing or rhythm. It was weary, yet full of the latent power of youth, of unused vitality. Stern, clean-cut, youthful faces were set northward, unchanging in the shadowy, pale gleams of the night. These faces lifted intensely whenever a strange, muffled, deep-toned roar rolled out of the murky north. The night looked stormy, but that rumble was not thunder. Fifty miles northward, beyond that black and mysterious horizon, great guns were booming war.

  Sometimes, as the breeze failed, the night was silent except for the slow, sloppy tramp of the marching soldiers. Then the low voices were hushed. When the wind freshened again, it brought at intervals those deep, significant detonations that, as the hours passed, seemed to grow heavier and more thunderous.

  At length a faint gray light appeared along the eastern sky, and gradually grew stronger. The dawn of another day was close at hand. It broke as if reluctantly, cold and gray and sunless.

  The detachment of United States troops halted for camp outside of the French village of A—.

  Kurt Dorn was at mess with his squad.

  The months in France had flown away on wings of training and absorbing and waiting. Dorn had changed incalculably. But all he realized of it was that he weighed one hundred and ninety pounds and that he seemed to have lived a hundred swift lives. All that he saw and felt became part of him. His
comrades had been won to him as friends by virtue of his ever-ready helping hand, by his devotion to training, by his close-lipped acceptance of all the toils and knocks and pains common to the making of a soldier. The squad lived together as one large family of brothers. Dorn’s comrades had at first tormented him with his German name; they had made fun of his abstraction and his letter writing; they had misunderstood his aloofness. But the ridicule died away, and now, in the presaged nature of events, his comrades, all governed by the physical life of the soldier, took him for a man.

  Perhaps it might have been chance, or it might have been true of all the American squads, but the fact was that Dorn’s squad was a strangely assorted set of young men. Perhaps that might have been Dorn’s conviction from coming to live long with them. They were a part of the New York Division of the —th, all supposed to be New York men. But this was not true. Dorn was a native of Washington. Sanborn was a thick-set, sturdy fellow with the clear brown tan and clear brown eyes of the Californian. Brewer was from South Carolina, a lean, lanky Southerner, with deep-set dark eyes. Dixon hailed from Massachusetts, from a fighting family, and from Harvard, where he had been a noted athlete. He was a big, lithe, handsome boy, red-faced and curly-haired. Purcell was a New Yorker, of rich family, highly connected, and his easy, clean, fine ways, with the elegance of his person, his blond distinction, made him stand out from his khaki-clad comrades, though he was clad identically with them. Rogers claimed the Bronx to be his home and he was proud of it. He was little, almost undersize, but a knot of muscle, a keen-faced youth with Irish blood in him. These particular soldiers of the squad were closest to Dorn.

  Corporal Bob Owens came swinging in to throw his sombrero down.

  “What’s the orders, Bob?” someone inquired.

  “We’re going to rest here,” he replied.

  The news was taken impatiently by several and agreeably by the majority. They were all travel-stained and worn. Dorn did not comment on the news, but the fact was that he hated the French villages. They were so old, so dirty, so obsolete, so different from what he had been accustomed to. But he loved the pastoral French countryside, so calm and picturesque. He reflected that soon he would see the devastation wrought by the Huns.

  “Any news from the front?” asked Dixon.

  “I should smile,” replied the corporal grimly.

  “Well, open up, you clam.”

  Owens thereupon told swiftly and forcibly what he had heard. More advance of the Germans—it was familiar news. But somehow it was taken differently here within sound of the guns. Dorn studied his comrades, wondering if their sensations were similar to his. He expressed nothing of what he felt, but all the others had something to say. Hard, cool, fiery, violent speech that differed as those who uttered it differed, yet its predominant note rang fight.

  “Just heard a funny story,” said Owens presently.

  “Spring it,” somebody replied.

  “This comes from Berlin, so they say. According to rumor, the Kaiser and the Crown Prince seldom talk to each other. They happened to meet the other day. And the Crown Prince said . . . ‘Say, pop, what got us into this war?’

  “The Emperor replied . . . ‘My son, I was deluded.’

  “‘Oh, sire, impossible!’ exclaimed the Prince. ‘How could it be?’

  “‘Well, some years ago I was visited by a grinning son-of-a-gun from New York . . . no other than the great T.R. I took him around. He was most interested in my troops. After he had inspected them, and particularly the Imperial Guard, he slapped me on the back and shouted . . . “Bill, you could lick the world.” And, my son, I fell for it.’”

  This story fetched a roar from every soldier present except Dorn. An absence of mirth in him had been noted before.

  “Dorn, can’t you laugh?” protested Dixon.

  “Sure I can . . . when I hear something funny,” replied Dorn.

  His comrades gazed hopelessly at him.

  “My Lawd, boy, thet was shore funny,” drawled Brewer with his lazy Southern manner.

  “Kurt, you’re not human,” said Owens sadly. “That’s why they call you Demon Dorn.”

  All the boys in the squad had nicknames. In Dorn’s case several had been applied by irrepressible comrades before one stuck. The first one received a poor reception from Kurt. The second happened to be a great blunder for the soldier who invented it. He was not in Dorn’s squad, but he knew Dorn pretty well, and in a moment of deviltry he had coined for Dorn the name Kaiser Dorn. Dorn’s reaction to this appellation was discomfiting and painful for the soldier. As he lay flat on the ground, where Dorn had knocked him, he had struggled with a natural rage, quickly to overcome it. He showed the right kind of spirit. He got up. “Dorn, I apologize. I was only in fun. But some fun is about as funny as death.” On the way out he suggested a more felicitous name—Demon Dorn. Somehow the boys took to that. It fitted many of Dorn’s violent actions in training, especially the way he made a bayonet charge. Dorn objected strenuously. But the name stuck. No comrade or soldier ever again made a hint of Dorn’s German name or blood.

  “Fellows, if a funny story can’t make Dorn laugh, he’s absolutely a dead one,” said Owens.

  “Spring a new one, quick,” spoke up someone. “Gee, it’s great to laugh. Why, I’ve not heard from home for a month.”

  “Dorn, will you beat it so I can spring this one?” queried Owens.

  “Sure,” replied Dorn amiably as he started away. “I suppose you think me one of these I-dare-you-to-make-me-laugh sort of chaps.”

  “Forget her, Dorn . . . come out of it,” chirped up Rogers.

  To Dorn’s regret, he believed that he failed his comrades in one way, and he was always trying to make up for it. Part of the training of a soldier was the ever-present need and duty of cheerfulness. Every member of the squad had his secret, his own personal memory, his inner consciousness that he strove to keep hidden. Long ago Dorn had divined that this or that comrade was looking toward the bright side, or pretending there was one. They all played their parts. Like men they faced this incomprehensible duty, this tremendous separation, this dark and looming future, as if it was only hard work that must be done in good spirit. But Dorn, despite all his will, was mostly silent, aloof, brooding, locked up in his eternal strife of mind and soul. He could not help it. Notwithstanding all he saw and divined of the sacrifice and pain of his comrades, he knew that his ordeal was infinitely harder. It was natural that they hoped for the best. He had no hope.

  “Boys,” said Owens, “there’s a squad of Blue Devils camped over here in an old barn. Just back from the front. Someone said there wasn’t a man in it who hadn’t had a dozen wounds, and some twice that many. We must see that bunch. Bravest soldiers of the whole war. They’ve been through the three years . . . at Verdun . . . on the Marne . . . and now this awful Flanders drive. It’s up to us to see them.”

  News like this thrilled Dorn. During all the months he had been in France the deeds and valor of these German-named Blue Devils had come to him, here and there and everywhere. Dorn remembered all he heard, and believed it, too, though some of the charges and some of the burdens attributed to these famed soldiers seemed unbelievable. His opportunity had now come. With the moving up to the front he would meet reality, and all within him, the keen, strange eagerness, the curiosity that perplexed, the unintelligible longing, the heat and burn of passion, quickened and intensified.

  Not until late in the afternoon, however, did off duty present an opportunity for him to go into the village. It looked the same as the other villages he had visited, and the inhabitants, old men, old women and children, all had the somber eyes, the strained, hungry faces, the oppressed look he had become accustomed to see. But sad as were these inhabitants of a village near the front, there was never in any one of them any absence of welcome to the Americans. Indeed, in most people he met there was a quick flashing of intense joy and gratitude. The Americans had come across the sea to fight beside the French. That was the import
, tremendous and beautiful.

  Dorn met Dixon and Rogers on the main street of the little village. They had been to see the Blue Devils.

  “Better stay away from them,” advised Dixon dubiously.

  “No! Why?” ejaculated Dorn.

  Dixon shook his head. “Greatest bunch I ever looked at. But I think they resented our presence. Pat and I were talking about them. It’s strange, Dorn, but I believe these Blue Devils that have saved France and England, and perhaps America, too, don’t like our being here.”

  “Impossible,” replied Dorn.

  “Go and see for yourself,” put in Rogers. “I believe we all ought to look them over.”

  Thoughtfully Dorn strode on in the direction indicated, and presently he arrived at the end of the village, where in an old orchard he found a low, rambling, dilapidated barn, before which clusters of soldiers in blue lounged around smoking fires. As he drew closer, he saw that most of them seemed fixed in gloomy abstraction. A few were employed at some task of hand, and several bent over the pots on the fires. Dorn’s sweeping gaze took in the whole scene, and his first quick, strange impression was that these soldiers resembled ghouls who had lived in dark holes of mud.