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

of
that unreal world it will seem as if you were really mine.
Perhaps I did not do right by keeping silent; perhaps my silence was
false pride. I was talking to 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