The Love of an Unknown Soldier Found in a Dug-Out | Page 9

your face grows clear to me again. When I remember you like that I feel your kindness. You may not care, but you are not careless; I could make you care if I liked. To have known you as I have is more than I had counted on more than I deserved. To have had love come to one in the midst of a war, was more than could have been expected. All my life I had waited for that; then, when one had sacrificed so many human affections, it happened. It was a gift from the gods. Though you may never know, I ought to be contented.
In this strange world, where courage masquerades as duty, we have left all hope behind. To hope too much is to court cowardice. To be brave one should live a day at a time. In the past I was so selfish, so full of plans for happiness. I wanted to live so strongly, to be so much, to do so much, to hold the whole world in my hands, I had my future planned out for forty years. I felt as though the destiny of all the generations depended on what I should do with my time. And then this war came. I had never dreamt of fighting. The thought that I should ever kill anybody was inconceivable; it was worse than that it was a terror. One had to sink personality and ambition; throw aside everything for which one had been trained; take up a way of life which was abhorrent to one's nature; place oneself in a position where one must be inefficient; and stand the strong chance of dying shortly, in a manner which seemed incommensurately obscure and out of proportion ghastly. And why? Because Calvary had repeated itself; after two thousand years to die for others had become again worth while.
I must not entertain hopes about you. To do so would be weakening. You have happened in my life that should be sufficient. To have snatched one last glimpse of loyalty should make me braver; it should be like the sacrament pressed against the lips of those about to die. I don't think I will write to you any more, my dear. These unposted letters, written out of loneliness, are becoming a luxury which is dangerous. They make the future seem too valuable. I begin to realize how sweet life is how glorious we could make it. I would rather be at rest within myself if I am called upon to say good-bye. You ran up the stairs without turning your head when we parted. That's the way I would prefer to go out of life.

IV
A LETTER from you! Such a jolly letter, so full of yourself! It's just as though you were at my elbow and I could hear your voice. It's as though you let me take your arm again, the way 1 did in the Luxembourg Gardens to help you over the slippery places. What a reluctant, stiffly proper arm it was on that first occasion. But your letter! I've read it how many times? I can't count. I think I know it all by heart, and yet I keep on turning back to my favourite passages. There's the one in which you describe your first introduction to the town of J.
How it was night, every light extinguished and the streets a stagnant river of blackness no sound, no life, a habitation of the dead. Then the sudden commotion in the sky, the rattle of machine-guns, the glare of a plane descending in flames and the crash of bombs on the house-tops. Weren't you frightened? There's no hint of fear in your letter. " From my selfish point of view," you write, " it was the best thing that could have happened. It taught me in an instant how badly I was needed there." A gallant way of being selfish! You're just as exultant over your job as we men in the front-line; it's the immense chance for sacrifice that intrigues one. I suppose even in peace-times the chance was always there, only one's eyes were blinded. Perhaps the sacrifice demanded wasn't large enough.
I ought to be vastly concerned at the risks you are taking. I'm not; I'm too glad that your spirit should be kindled by danger. To save France, Joan of Arc charged on horseback into battle. You go with less drama, but with an equal heroism. Your charger is a Ford car. You have exchanged your armour for a uniform of the Croix Rouge Americaine. You don't kill; you rescue children. Frankly I prefer your work. If you could look over my shoulder, you would laugh quietly and say that 1 make too much of what you are doing that it's really very