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

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; 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