Indianapolis Times, Volume 41, Number 100, Indianapolis, Marion County, 5 September 1929 — Page 13

'SEPT. 5, 1529

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CHAPTER XIV 'Continued* Between the meadows behind our town there stands a line of old poplars by a stream. They were visible from a great distance, and although they grew on one bank only, we called them the poplar avenue. Even as •children, we had a great love for them, they drew us vaguely thither, we played truant the whole day i>y them and listened to their rustling. We sat beneath them on the bank of the stream and let our feet hang over in the bright, swift waters. The pure fragrance of the water and the melody of the wind in the poplars held our fancies. We loved ♦hem dearly, and the image of those days still makes my heart pause In its beating. It is strange that all the memories that come have these two qualities. They always are completely calm, that is predominant in them; and even if they are not really calm, ihev become so. They are soundless apparitions that speak to me, with looks and gestures, silently, without any word —and it is the alarm of their silence that forces me to lay hold of my and my rifle lest I should abandon myself to the liberation and allurement in which my body would dilate and gently pass away into the still forces that lie behind these things. They are quiet in this way. because quietness is so unattainable tor us now. At the front there is ho quietness and the curse of the front reaches so far that we never pass beyond it. Even in the remote depots and rest areas the droning and the muffled noise of shelling is always in our ears. We never are so far off that it is no more to be heard. But these last few days it has been unbearable. Their stillness is the reason why these memories of former times do not awaken desire so much as sorrow— a strange, apprehensible melancholy. Once we had such desires—but the/' return not. They are past, they belong to another world that is gone from us. In the barracks they called forth a rebellious, wild craving for their return; for then they still w'ere bound to us. we belonged to them and they still were bound to us. we belonged to them and they to us. even though we were already absent from them. Thev appeared in the soldiers’ Songs which we sang as we marched between the glow of the dawn and the black silhouettes of the forests to drill on the moor, they were a powerful remembrance that was in us and came from us. But here in tlje trenches they are completely lost to us. They arise | no more; we are dead and they j stand remote on the horizon, they j are an apparition, a mysterious re- !

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; flection drawing us home, that we fear and love without hope. They are strong and our desire jis strong—but they are unattainable, and we know it. And even if these scenes of cur I youth were given back to us we would hardly know what to do. The tender, secret influence that passed i from them into us could not arise again. ' We • long to be in them and to move in them; we long to remember and to love them and to be stirred by the sight of them. But it would be like gazing at the photograph of a dead comrade; those are his fea- | tures, it is his face, and the days we spent together take qn a mournful j lift in the memory; but the man I himself it is not. We never could again, as the same beings, take part in those scenes. It was not any recognition of their beauty and their significance that attracted us, but the communion, the feeling of a comradeship with the j things and events of our existence, . which cut us off and made the world of our parents a thing incomprehensible to us—for then we surrendered i ourselves to events and were lost in j them, and the least little thing was ! enough to carry us down the stream | of eternity. Perhaps it was only the privilege of our youth, but as yet we recognized no limits and saw nowhere an end. We had that thrill of expectation In the blood which united us with the course of our days. Today we pass through the scenes of our youth like travelers. We arc burnt up by hard facts; like tradesmen we understand distinctions, and like butchers, necessities. We no longer are untroubled —we are indifferent. We long to be there; but could wc live there? We are forldrn like chldren, and experienced like old men, we are crude and sorrowful and superficial —I believe we are lost. a st a f CHAPTER XV ■%>' Y hands grow cold and my flesh Ivi rr peps; and yet the night is warm. Only the mist, is cold, this mysterious mist that trails the dead j before us and sucks from them their 1 last, creeping life. By morning they will be pale and green and their blood congealed and black. Still the parachute-rockets shoot up and cast their pitiless light over the stony landscape, which is full of craters and frozen lights like a moon. The blood beneath my skin brings fear and restlessness into my thoughts. They become feeble and tremble, they desire warmth and life. They can not endure without sympathy and communion, they are disordered before the naked picture ot despair. I,hear the rattle of the mess-tins and immediately feel a strong desire for warm food: it would do me good and comfort me. Painfully I force

myself to wait until I am relieved. Then I go into the dugout and find a mug of barley. It is cooked in fat and tastes good. I eat it slowly. I remain quiet, though the others are in a better mood, for the shelling'has died down. The days go by and the incredible hours follow one another*as a matter of. course. Attacks alternate with counter-attacks and slowly the dead pile up in the field of crators between the trendies. We are able to bring in most of the mounded that do not lie too far off. But many have long to wait and we listen to them dying. For one of them we search two days in vain. He must be lying on his belly and unable to turn over. Otherwise it is hard to understand why we can not find him; for it is only when a man has his mouth close to the ground that it is impossible to gauge the direction of his cry. He must have been hit badly—one ot those nasty wounds, neither so severe than they exhaust the body at once and a man dreams on in a half-swoon, nor so light that a man endures the pain in the hope of becoming well again. Kat thinks he has either a broken

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pelvis or a shot through the spine. His chest can not have been injured, otherwise he would not have such strength to cry out. And if it were any other kind of wound it would be possible to see him moving. He grows gradually hoarser. The voice sounds so desperate that it prevails everywhere. The first night some of our fellows go out three times to look for him. But when they think they have located him and crawl across, next time they hear the voice, it seems to come from somewhere else altogether. We search in vain until dawn. Wc scrutinize the field all day with glasses, but discover nothing. On the second day the calls are fainter: that will be because his lips and mouth have become dry. Our company commander has promised special leave with three days extra to any one who finds him. That is a powerful inducement, but we would do all that is possible without that; for bis cry is terrible Kat and Kropp even go out in the afternoon, and Albert gets the lobe of his ear shot off in consequence. It is to no purpose. They come back without him. It is easy to understand what hc cries. At first he called only for help—the second night he must have some delirium, hc talks with his wife and children, we often detect the name Elise. Today he mere-

ly weeps. By evening the voice dwindles to a croaking. But it persists through the whole night. We hear it so distinctly, because the wind blows toward our line. In the morning when we suppose he already has long gone to his rest, there comes across to us one last gurgling rattle. The days are hot and the dead lie unburied. We can not fetch them all in, if we did we should not know what to do with them. The shells will bury them. Many have their bellies swollen up like balloons. They hiss, belch and make movements. The gases in them make noises. The sky is blue a.nd without clouds. In the evening it grows sultry and the hta rises from the earth. When the wind blows toward us it brings the smell of blood, which is heavy and sweet. This deathly exhalation from the shell holes seems to be a mixture of chloroform and putrefaction, and fills us with nausea and retching. The nights become quiet and the hunt for copper driving-bands and the silken parachutes of the French star-shells begin. Why the drivingbands are so desirable no one knows exactly. • / The collectors merely assert that they are valuable. Some have collected so many that they will stoop under the weight of them when we. go back.

But Haie at least gives a reason. He intends to give them to his girl to supplement her garters. A*t this the Friesians explode with mirth. They slap their knees: “By Jove though, he's a wit, Haie is, he's got brains.” Tjaden especially can hardly contain himself; he takes the largest of the rings in his hand and every now and then puts his leg through it to show how much slack there is. • Haie, man. she must have legs—j like an elephant!” Haie beams, proud that his girl I should receive so much appreciation. “She's a nice bit,” he says with j self-satisfaction. 1 The parachutes arc turned to more practical uses. According to the size of the bust three or perhaps four will make a blouse, Gropp and I use them as handkerchiefs. The others send them home. If the women could see at what risk these bits of rag are often obtained, they would be horrified. Kat surprises Tjaden endeavoring with perfect equanimity to knock the driving-band off a dud. If any one else had tried it the thing would have exploded, but Tjaden always has his luck with him. (To Be Continued) Copyright 1929, by Little. Brown & Cos., Distributed by King Features Syndicate, Inc.

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