The Love of an Unknown Soldier Found in a Dug-Out | Page 8

happen. I'm going to lie down and get a little rest.

III
THE mail has just come in. It was brought up on the ammunition limbers. We heard the cry, "Mail up," and then the running feet of the men. It's queer to think how far those letters travel and how safely they arrive. They are brought up to us under shell-fire, through gas, by runners, pack animals, limbers. Since no movement is allowed near the guns by day, they invariably reach us at night. Before ever they can be distributed, the ammunition has to be unloaded so that the teams may get out of range. That accounts for the speed with which the men work. They form a chain, and pass the shells swiftly to the gun-pits. Until everything is safely stored away the pages from their mothers, wives and sweethearts must wait. When the last shell has been laid in its rack, they scramble to the sergeant-major's dug-out. He crouches over the bag by the light of the candle and reads aloud the name on each envelope or parcel. Finally the bag is empty. He turns it upside down and shakes it. There will be no more news from home till next night. The crowd scatters; the blackness becomes again lonely.
We officers have to sit still and wait for our letters to be brought to us by our servants. It's a sore trial to our patiencepart of the price we pay for our rank. To-night I made sure I should hear from you. At the cry, " Mail up," I forsook my dignity and went out on the pretence of seeing that the teams were clear of the position. It was such a night; the stars and snow were like silver inlaid in ebony. From the gun-pits came the glow of fires. Men were already sitting round them in silence, reading by the light of the jumping flames. The frost on the duck-board crackled beneath my tread. AVar seemed to have ceased for a little while; for a little while memories travelled back to affections and quiet.
My servant met me with a bundle of letters. "The officers'. Will you take them, sir?"
I returned to the hole in the ground which we call our mess, and sorted them out on the table. At a glance I saw that there was nothing from you -- my three letters were in known handwritings. A queer way to tell! You mean more to me than anyone in the world, yet I have never seen your handwriting. That brings home to me vividly how much we are strangers.
Every one in our mess has something to-night. Jack Holt has made the biggest haul; there are four from his wife. He married her in a hurry two years ago. He'd only known her a week, I understand. They had a four days' honeymoon; then he came to France. He's spent about thirty days with her in his entire life. I never knew a man more in love with anybody; I'm his best pal, so he tells me about her. Our major got only one letter. His girl is, like you, in a French Hospital. I have an idea that she plays him up sometimes. It's incredible that anyone should trifle with our major. He doesn't look very pleased; he's puckering his brows. Then there's Bill Lane; he didn't come off so badly. He's a nervous kind of chap and, despite that, plucky. His girl is in England. He plans to marry her on his next leave. He's most frightfully worried lest a shell should get him before that happens; nevertheless, he plays the game to the limit with the best of us. He's smiling now as he turns his pages. Poor old thing, for once his mind is at rest; he's happy. And then there's Stephen, our expert draughtsman. No one ever writes to him. He's handsome and the best of fellows. He shows no excitement when our letters are distributed. He expects nothing. While we read ours, he bends where the light spills over the table, and goes on ruling arcs into his map.
Why didn't you write to me? I had counted the days and made allowances for delays. A letter might have come yesterday; to-night it seemed certain. I form so many conjectures the old ones which lovers have fashioned so many times to dispel their doubts. You were busy. You did write, but forgot to post it. You posted it, and it's held up in the transit. Then there are other conjectures of another kind: that you do not care; that the knowledge that I care would come to you as a surprise; that it is the knowledge that I care that keeps you from writing. I close my eyes and concentrate my memories;