Joy in the Morning | Page 2

there? You beggar--oh, my God! They're dead. Jack Arnold, and Martin and--Cram and Bennett and Emmet and--Dragamore--Oh--God, God! All the boys! Good American boys. The whole blamed bunch--dead in a ditch. Only me. Dying, in a ditch filled with dead men. What's the sense? (Silence.) This damned silly war. This devilish--killing. When we ought to be home, doing man's work--and play. Getting some tennis, maybe, this hot afternoon; coming in sweaty and dirty--and happy--to a tub--and dinner--with mother. (Groans.) It begins to hurt--oh, it hurts confoundedly. (Becomes delirious.) Canoeing on the river. With little Jim. See that trout jump, Jimmie? Cast now. Under the log at the edge of the trees. That's it! Good--oh! (Groans.) It hurts--badly. Why, how can I stand it? How can anybody? I'm badly wounded. Jimmie--tell mother. Oh--good boy--you've hooked him. Now play him; lead him away from the lily-pads. (Groans.) Oh, mother! Won't you come? I'm wounded. You never failed me before. I need you--if I die. You went away down--to the gate of life, to bring me inside. Now--it's the gate of death--you won't fail? You'll bring me through to that other life? You and I, mother--and I won't be scared. You're the first--and the last. (_Puts out his arm searching and folds a hand, still warm, of a dead soldier_.) Ah--mother, my dear. I knew--you'd come. Your hand is warm--comforting. You always--are there when I need you. All my life. Things are getting--hazy. (He laughs.) When I was a kid and came down in an elevator--I was all right, I didn't mind the drop if I might hang on to your hand. Remember? (_Pats dead soldier's hand, then clutches it again tightly_.) You come with me when I go across and let me--hang on--to your hand. And I won't be scared. (Silence.) This damned--damned--silly war! All the good American boys. We charged the Fritzes. How they ran! But--there was a mistake. No artillery preparation. There ought to be crosses and medals going for that charge, for the boys--(Laughs.) Why, they're all dead. And me--I'm dying, in a ditch. Twenty years old. Done out of sixty years by--by the silly war. What's it for? Mother, what's it about? I'm ill a bit. I can't think what good it is. Slaughtering boys--all the nations' boys--honest, hard-working boys mostly. Junk. Fine chaps an hour ago. What's the good? I'm dying--for the flag. But--what's the good? It'll go on--wars. Again. Peace sometimes, but nothing gained. And all of us--dead. Cheated out of our lives. Wouldn't the world have done as well if this long ditch of good fellows had been let live? Mother?
_The Boy's Dream of His Mother_. (Seems to speak.) My very dearest--no. It takes this great burnt-offering to free the world. The world will be free. This is the crisis of humanity; you are bending the lever that lifts the race. Be glad, dearest life of the world, to be part of that glory. Think back to your school-days, to a sentence you learned. Lincoln spoke it. "These dead shall not have died in vain, and government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth."
The Boy. (Whispers.) I remember. It's good. "Shall not have died in vain"--"The people--shall not perish"--where's your hand, mother? It's taps for me. The lights are going out. Come with me--mother. (Dies.)

SECOND ACT
_The scene it the same trench one hundred years later, in the year 2018. It is ten o'clock of a summer morning. Two French children have come to the trench to pick flowers. The little girl of seven is gentle and soft-hearted; her older brother is a man of nearly ten years, and feels his patriotism and his responsibilities_.
_Ang��lique_. (The little French girl.) Here's where they grow, Jean-B'tiste.
_Jean-Baptiste_. (The little French boy.) I know. They bloom bigger blooms in the American ditch.
_Ang��lique_. (Climbs into the ditch and picks flowers busily.) Why do people call it the 'Merican ditch, Jean-B'tiste? What's 'Merican?
_Jean-Baptiste_. (Ripples laughter.) One's little sister doesn't know much! Never mind. One is so young--three years younger than I am. I'm ten, you know.
_Ang��lique. Tiens_, Jean-B'tiste. Not ten till next month.
Jean-Baptiste. Oh, but--but--next month!
_Ang��lique_. What's 'Merican?
_Jean-Baptiste_. Droll _p'tite_. Why, everybody in all France knows that name. Of American.
_Ang��lique_. (Unashamed.) Do they? What is it?
_Jean-Baptiste_. It's the people that live in the so large country across the ocean. They came over and saved all our lives, and France.
_Ang��lique_. (Surprised.) Did they save my life, Jean-B'tiste?
_Jean-Baptiste_. Little _dr?le_. You weren't born.
_Ang��lique_. Oh! Whose life did they then save? Maman's?
_Jean-Baptiste_. But no. She was not born either.
_Ang��lique_. Whose life, then--the grandfather's?
_Jean-Baptiste_. But--even he was not born. (_Disconcerted by Ang��lique's direct tactics_.) One sees they could not save the lives of people who were not here. But--they were brave--but yes--and friends to France. And they came