Joy in the Morning | Page 3

France. And they came across the ocean to fight for France. Big, strong young soldiers in brown uniforms--the grandfather told me about it yesterday. I know it all. His father told him, and he was here. In this field. (_Jean-Baptiste looks about the meadow, where the wind blows flowers and wheat._) There was a large battle--a fight very immense. It was not like this then. It was digged over with ditches and the soldiers stood in the ditches and shot at the wicked Germans in the other ditches. Lots and lots of soldiers died.
_Angélique_. (Lips trembling.) Died--in ditches?
_Jean-Baptiste_. (_Grimly._) Yes, it is true.
_Angélique_. (_Breaks into sobs._) I can't bear you to tell me that. I can't bear the soldiers to--die--in ditches.
_Jean-Baptiste_. (_Pats her shoulder._) I'm sorry I told you if it makes you cry. You are so little. But it was one hundred years ago. They're dead now.
_Angélique_. (Rubs her eyes with her dress and smiles.) Yes, they're quite dead now. So--tell me some more.
_Jean-Baptiste_. But I don't want to make you cry more, _p'tite_. You're so little.
_Angélique._ I'm not very little. I'm bigger than Anne-Marie Dupont, and she's eight.
_Jean-Baptiste_. But no. She's not eight till next month. She told me.
_Angélique_. Oh, well--next month. Me, I want to hear about the brave 'Mericans. Did they make this ditch to stand in and shoot the wicked Germans?
_Jean-Baptiste_. They didn't make it, but they fought the wicked Germans in a brave, wonderful charge, the bravest sort, the grandfather said. And they took the ditch away from the wicked Germans, and then--maybe you'll cry.
_Angélique_. I won't. I promise you I won't.
_Jean-Baptiste_. Then, when the ditch--only they called it a trench--was well full of American soldiers, the wicked Germans got a machine gun at the end of it and fired all the way along--the grandfather called it enfiladed--and killed every American in the whole long ditch.
_Angélique_. (_Bursts into tears again; buries her face in her skirt_.) I--I'm sorry I cry, but the 'Mericans were so brave and fought--for France--and it was cruel of the wicked Germans to--to shoot them.
_Jean-Baptiste_. The wicked Germans were always cruel. But the grandfather says it's quite right now, and as it should be, for they are now a small and weak nation, and scorned and watched by other nations, so that they shall never be strong again. For the grandfather says they are not such as can be trusted--no, never the wicked Germans. The world will not believe their word again. They speak not the truth. Once they nearly smashed the world, when they had power. So it is looked to by all nations that never again shall Germany be powerful. For they are sly, and cruel as wolves, and only intelligent to be wicked. That is what the grandfather says.
_Angélique_. Me, I'm sorry for the poor wicked Germans that they are so bad. It is not nice to be bad. One is punished.
_Jean-Baptiste_. (Sternly.) It is the truth. One is always punished. As long as the world lasts it will be a punishment to be a German. But as long as France lasts there will be a nation to love the name of America, one sees. For the Americans were generous and brave. They left their dear land and came and died for us, to keep us free in France from the wicked Germans.
_Angélique_. (Lip trembles.) I'm sorry--they died.
_Jean-Baptiste_. But, _p'tite!_ That was one hundred years ago. It is necessary that they would have been dead by now in every case. It was more glorious to die fighting for freedom and France than just to die--fifty years later. Me, I'd enjoy very much to die fighting. But look! You pulled up the roots. And what is that thing hanging to the roots--not a rock?
_Angélique_. No, I think not a rock. (She takes the object in her hands and knocks dirt from it.) But what is it, Jean-B'tiste?
_Jean-Baptiste_. It's--but never mind. I can't always know everything, don't you see, Angélique? It's just something of one of the Americans who died in the ditch. One is always finding something in these old battle-fields.
_Angélique_. (_Rubs the object with her dress. Takes a handful of sand and rubs it on the object. Spits on it and rubs the sand_.) _V'là_, Jean-B'tiste--it shines.
_Jean-Baptiste_. (Loftily.) Yes. It is nothing, that. One finds such things.
_Angélique._ (Rubbing more.) And there are letters on it.
_Jean-Baptiste_. Yes. It is nothing, that. One has flowers en masse now, and it is time to go home. Come then, _p'tite_, drop the dirty bit of brass and pick up your pretty flowers. _Tiens!_ Give me your hand. I'll pull you up the side of the ditch. (_Jean-Baptiste turns as they start_.) I forgot the thing which the grandfather told me I must do always. (He stands at attention.) Au revoir, brave