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

of a refusal? 1 can see
you now as you ran up the stairs. You didn't look back. Had you stayed
a moment longer I might have spoken the words which were better left
unsaid. I think you knew that.
It's nearly morning. Nothing will 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