Joy in the Morning | Page 2

is alive, but dying. He speaks, being part
of the time delirious._

The Boy. Why can't I stand? What--is it? I'm wounded. The sand-bags
roll when I try--to hold to them. I'm--badly wounded. (_Sinks down.
Silence._) How still it is! We--we took the trench. Glory be! We took it!
(_Shouts weakly as he lies in the trench._) (_Sits up and stares, shading
his eyes_.) It's horrid still. Why--they're here! Jack--you! What makes
you--lie 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_.
_Angélique_. (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.
_Angélique_. (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.
_Angélique. Tiens_, Jean-B'tiste. Not ten till next month.
Jean-Baptiste. Oh, but--but--next month!
_Angélique_. What's 'Merican?
_Jean-Baptiste_. Droll _p'tite_. Why, everybody in all France knows
that name. Of American.
_Angélique_. (Unashamed.) Do they? What is it?
_Jean-Baptiste_. It's the people