A section of the Argonne wood is feebly lighted by distant star shells. Over the mechanical and human wreckage eddies the vapor of poison gas; yet the two men sitting against the ruined gun-emplacement wear no masks, and seem not to feel the gas. One is a husky chap, a marine; his left foot, gone above the ankle, is replaced by an ineffectual tourniquet. The other is a conscript; across his breast is a wide gash of bubbling red.
Nearby lies a German, bayonet-gashed, who from time to time opens his eyes. At his knee lies an empty U.S.A. canteen.
The Marine: You were a damn' fool to give him that bottle! Not that it matters to us, only—
The Conscript, smiling: You gave him yours first!
The Marine: Sure; I figured yours 'ud do us, but we should worry now! Say, Fritzie learned somethin' about fightin' today, huh?
The Conscript: I feel like writing a poem about it; only I'll never write it, of course—
The Marine: Cut the comedy, bo! Say, the way you knifed this guy was one swell bit o' work! After he ploughed you up, too!
The poet-conscript shivers. The German opens his eyes wide and looks at them.
The German: Listen—the music! Can you hear it? The Brunhilde motif; it is the valkyr coming for me—
His eyes close again, his head droops.
The Marine: Plumb nuts; I bet he ain't et a square meal in a year! Say, what d'you figure on seein' next, bo?
The Conscript, blankly: Eh?
The Marine: Why, we don't swallow no bull about fightin' for democracy and goin' to heaven; everybody except the home folks is wise to that bunk. But where do we land on the other side, hey? Fightin' Heinie won't ticket us to the pearly gates, will it?
The Conscript, gazing at the curling trees in the mist: Search me! Religion never bothered me much; and just now I'm sorry.
The Marine: Sorry, hell! Cut out the regrets. If you hadn't give that guy your canteen we might ha' lasted till morning.
The Conscript: If you hadn't crawled to help prop him up, your tourniquet might not have given way—
Suddenly startled, both men turn their heads. Before them appears the figure of a man, nearly naked, an open wound in his side; he is regarding them attentively.
The Marine: Hullo! Where in hell did you come from—front lines? Sit down and take it easy; no Croy Rouge nor nothin' here to hurry you. Got it bad?
The Conscript: Here's an extra first-aid packet—better stop the bleeding.
The naked man moves closer, but refuses the proffered packet.
The Naked Man: Thank you, brother, but it would do me no good.
The Marine: I guess you're right there. Bayonet, hey? Jabbed up an' got you.
The Naked Man: I've come from inside the German lines.
The Conscript: Captured and got away, eh? Stripped off your uniform—
The Marine: What's your division? I bet Liggett's corp's been catchin' hell!
The Naked Man: I am unattached.
The Marine, feebly tossing out his mask: Take this; it can't help me, but there's gas around.
The Naked Man: Thanks, brother, but I hardly think it would help me, either.
The naked man moves, to show them his wounded feet. He opens his hands; and the conscript breaks into a bitter cry.
The Conscript: By God! Crucified you, like they did to the Canucks!
The Marine, pityingly: Aw, hell!
The German soldier opens his eyes, staring about in vacant wonder.
The German: To whom are you talking? There is no one here. Ach, the Valkyr song! It is drawing nearer—
The naked man throws him a glance of stern pity. Then he turns and extends his hand to the conscript.
The Naked Man: Come! I'll help you—
The Conscript, smiling: No use, pard! You chase along—we're here for keeps.
The Naked Man: Take my hand and get up! I've come to take you home.
The Marine, laughing harshly: Home!
With a faint shrug, the conscript touches the extended hand, grips it, and rises. In his face dawns amazed incredulity.
The Conscript: Good lord! I believe I can walk after all!
The naked man turns and holds out his hand to the marine in silent command.
The Marine, roughly: Aw, don't be a fool—can't you see I only got one foot? You guys chase along—
The Naked Man: I tell you, come! Put an arm around my neck; we'll do very well. Take my hand and get up!
Compelled, the marine obeys. Into his bronzed face leaps surprise as he rises. After getting one arm about his helper's neck, he pauses suddenly.
The Marine: Look here, you ain't in no shape to stand us both—
The Naked Man: Be quiet, brother! We are going home, and you need not doubt my strength. Come, let us go.
They start away, the marine moving by awkward hops, but moving. The conscript holds to the arm of the naked man, throwing him sidelong glances of frightened surmise—and at length checks himself abruptly.
The Conscript: I don't know if I'm out of my head—no, no! It's an impossibility. I'm afraid even to think of it—
The naked man smiles. Behind them the German once more opens his eyes and looks about in wonder.
The German: Where are they gone? No one is here—they were talking, yet I see no one. I can see no one!
The naked man casts over his shoulder a look of ineffable sorrow. From him comes a murmur.
The Naked Man: No, you can see no one. You cannot even see ME! And that, as you shall come to know, is hell.
LES DEUX CORTEGES
Within the church two companies are met.
The one is sad and bears an infant's bier,
A woman following; slow steals the tear
On her pale cheek, where grief his mark has set.
The other, a baptism. Protecting arm
Held close, a nurse upbears the precious mite;
Comes the young mother, whose proud looks invite
Praise and allegiance to her baby's charm.
They christen, they absolve; the chapels clear.
Then the two women, crossing in the aisle,
Exchange a single glance at joining there;
And—wondrous mystery to inspire a prayer—
The young wife weeps in gazing on the bier,
The mourner throws the newborn child a smite!