The Love of an Unknown Soldier Found in a Dug-Out | Page 5

one of your friends the other day about soldiers getting married, arguing that such conduct was selfish. She had been quite quiet hardly interested. Suddenly, with an unexpected violence, she turned. " I wish I had married my man," she said. I learnt her story afterwards. She had been engaged to a French officer and he had been killed. She had joined the Red Cross and ever since has been working her way grimly nearer and nearer to the Front. Did they smile as quietly as we smiled when last they parted?
So many happy times we've had in the last few days so much of friendship. I can at least carry the memory of these things back; they are unspoilt by any sadder knowledge. To-night, this last night, was perfect. We went to our favourite cafe the one we visited on that first snowy Sunday. We stopped so long talking over dinner that by the time we reached the opera the first scene was ended. We didn't grieve much. At least, I didn't; the opera was only an excuse for prolonging our time together. How quickly the evening hurried ! We were out in the Boulevards again, and it was time to see you home. What fun we had in searching for a non-existent taxi ! then at last we bribed the driver of a private car. Did you expect me to say anything in those last moments? I heard myself talking commonplaces in a voice which did not seem my own. I would speak. 1 would tell you. We talked. It was too late. Other people were entering the foyer. Of a sudden, after so much intimacy, we became embarrassed. " Good-bye," you said. "Goodbye," I repeated. " You won't forget to write?" You withdrew your hand and nodded. Turning, you ran up the stairs.
I am glad I met you. I am glad of the pain I shall carry back with me. My great loneliness before was that no woman had come into my life. Now I shall be able to think, " I am doing this for her." I shall be able to say, " Perhaps she knew why I did not speak. Perhaps she, too, is remembering? " I shall tell myself stories about you, just as if you were really mine. Your face will be with me, the sound of your voice and the memory of your gentleness. I shall be a better soldier because we have met. If I die, I shall die satisfied.
It is very late. Paris will soon be waking. I have to leave in five hours. I like to think of you as still near me so near that I could speak with you. You see the telephone is still a temptation but then there are no telephones to Paris from the forward guns.

II
I DIDN'T have much time to catch my train, but managed to stop long enough to order you some flowers. They were roses, deep red, the colour of the ones you wore at the opera on our last night. I bought far too many for good taste I bought the way I felt. At the last minute I forgot to enclose my card, so you won't know who sent them, though probably you'll guess. Once before, if you remember, I sent you flowers and you didn't acknowledge them. Was it because you were afraid to own to sentiment? Until they fade, they'll keep you reminded of me.
Where I am at present the very thought of flowers seems oddly out of place. I look down at myself, plastered with mud, and wonder if I am really the fellow who walked beside you. I'm up as liaison officer; our battalion headquarters are in a dug-out down which the rain pours from the swimming trench outside. Things are pretty lively; the festive Hun is making his presence felt. Our infantry are nervous and expecting a raid. There's a good deal of shelling of our support trenches and a faint smell of gas. Runners keep coming in with reports, slithering down the stairs and bringing in the mud. A candle gutters at my elbow. I'm sitting on a petrol can with a folded sack for a cushion. By the look of things I shall have to keep awake all night; we've already answered one S.O.S.
How far away you seem how far everything seems that I have loved. Probably by now, you, too, are doing your duty; I picture you at J , with your refugee children tucked snugly up in bed. The Huns gas and bomb you sometimes, you told me. I wish selfishly- But no, I'm glad that you are playing the game with us men. I suppose all the pretty clothes are put away left behind in Paris and you're wearing