Indianapolis Times, Volume 41, Number 112, Indianapolis, Marion County, 19 September 1929 — Page 20

PAGE 20

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CHAPTER XXV (Continued) Then he opens his eyes. He must have heard me and gazes at me with a look of utter terror. The body lies still, but in the eyes there is such an extraordinary expression of flight that for a moment I think they have power enough to carry the body off with them. Hundreds of miles away with one bound. The body is still, perfectly still, without sound, the gurgle has ceased, but the eyes cry out, yell, all the life is gathered together in them for one tremendous effort to flee, gathered together there in a dreadful terror of death, of me. My legs give way and I drop on my elbows. “No, no.” I whisper. The eyes follow me. I am power less to move so long as they are there. Then his hand slips slowly from his breast, only a little bit, it sinks just, a few inches, but this movement. breaks the power of the eyes. I bend forward, shake my head and whisper: “No, no, no.” I raise cm hand. I must show him that I want to help him. I stroke his forehead The eyes shrink back as the hand comes, then they lose their stare, the eyelids droop lower, the tension is past. I open his collar and place his head more comfortably upright. His mouth stands half open, it tries to form words. The lips are dry. My water bottle is not there. I have not brought it with me. But there is water in the mud, down at the bottom of the crater. I climb down, take out my handkerchief. spread it out, push it under and scoop up the yellow water that strains through into the hollow of my hand. He gulps it down. I fetch some more. Then I unbutton his tunic in order to bandage him if it is possible. In any case I must do it, so that if the fellows over there capture me they will see that I wanted to help him and so will not shoot me. He tries to resist, but his hand is too feeble. The shirt is stuck and will not come away, it is buttoned at the back. So there is nothing for it but to cut it off. I look for the knife and find it again. But when I begin to cut the shirt the eyes open once more and the cry is in them again and the demented expression, so that I must close them, press them shut and whisper: “I want to help you, Comrade, camerade, camerade, camerade ” eagerly repeating the word, to make him understand. There are three stabs. My field dressings cover them, the blood runs out under it, I press it tighter; there; he groans. That is all I can do. Now we must wait, wait. These hours—the gurgling starts again—but how slowly a man dies! For this I know —he can not be saved. Indeed. I have tried to tell myself that he will be, but at noon this pretense breaks down and melts before his groans. If only I had not lost my revolver crawling about, I would shoot him. Stab him I can not.

Bv noon I am groping on the outer limits of reason. Hunger devours me, I could almost weep for something to eat, I can not struggle against it. Again and again I fetch water for the dying man and drink some myself. This is the first man 1 have killed with my hands, whom I can see close at hand, whose death is my doing. Kat and Kropp and Muller have experienced it already, when they have hit someone; it happens to many, in hand-to-hand fighting especially— But every gasp lays my heart bare. This dying man has time with him, be has an invisible dagger with which he stabs me: Time and my thoughts. L would give much if he would but stay alive. It is hard to lie here and to have to see and hear him. In the afternoon, about 3, he is dead. I breathe freely again. But only for a short time. Soon the silence is more unbearable than the groans. I wish the gurgling were there again grasping, hoarse, now whistling softly and again hoarse and loud. It is mad, what I do. But I must do something. I prop the dead man up again so that he lies comfortably although he feels nothing any more. I close his eyes. They are brown, his hair is black and bit curly at the sides.

The mouth is full and soft beneath his mustache, the nose is j slightly arched, the skin brownish; I it is now' not so pale as it was be--1 fore, when he was still alive. For a moment the face seems almost healthy—then it collapses suddenly into the strange face of the dead that I have so often seen, 1 strange faces, all alike. No doubt his wife still thinks of him; she does not know what has happened. He looks as if he would often have written to her; she wiii be getting mail from him—tomorrow, in a week’s time—perhaps even a stray letter a month hence. She will read it, and in it he will be speaking to her. My state is getting worse, I no longer can control my thoughts. What would his wife look like? Like the little brunette on the other side of the canal. Does she belong to me now? Perhaps by this act she becomes mine. I wish Kantoreck were sitting here beside me. If my mother could see me. The dead man might have had thirty more years of life if only I had impressed the way back to our trench more sharply on my memory. If only he had run two yards farther to the left, he might now be sitting in the trench over there and writing a fresh letter to his wife. But I w'ill get no further that way; for that is the fate of all of us; if Kemmerich’s leg had been six inches to the right; if Haie Westhus had bent his back three inches further forward—a a a The silence spreads. I talk and must talk. So I speak to him and say to him: “Comrade, I did not want to kill you. If you jumped

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lin here again, I would not do it, if you would be sensible too. j “But you were only an idea to me before, an abstraction that lived | in my mind and called forth its appropriate response. It was the abj straction I stabbed. But now, for | the first time, I see you are a man like me. j “I thought of your hand-grenades, of your bayonet, of your rifle; now I 'see your wife and you? face and ;our fellowship. Forgive me, comrade. We always see it too late. ! “Why do they never tell us that : you are just poor devils like us, that | your mothers are just an anxious as ours, and that we have the same fear of death, and the same dying and the same agony. “Forgive me, comrade; how could you be my enemy? If we threw away j these rifles and this uniform you could be my brother just like Kat and Albert. Take twenty years of my life, comrade, and stand up—take more, for I do not know what I can even attempt to do with it i now.” It is quiet, the front is still exI cept for the crackle of rifle-fire. The ; bullets rain over; they are not fired ! haphazard, but shrewdly aimed from all sides. I can not get out. “I will write to your wife,” I say hastily to the dead man, “I will write to her, she must hear it from me. I will tell her everything I have told you, she shall not suffer, I will help her, and your parents too, and your child ” His tunic is half open. The pocketbook is easy to find. But I hesitate to open it. In it is the book with his name. So long as I do not know his t name perhaps I may still forget him, time will obliterate it, this picture. But his name, it is a nail that will be hammered into me and never come out again. It has the power to recall this for ever, it always will come back and stand before me. . Irresolutely I take the wallet in my hand. It slips out of my hand ana falls open. Some pictures and letters drop out. I gather them up and want to put them back again, but the strain I am under, the uncertainty, the hunger, the danger, these hours with the dead man have f LEAR VEIYETY SKIN V* can be yours by proper cleansing. The right soap to ask for is Resinol

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confused me. I want to hasten the relief, to intensify and to end the terture, as one strikes an unendurable painful hand against the trunk of a tree regardless of everything. There are portraits of a woman and a little girl, small amateur photographs taken against an ivy-clad wall. Along with them are letters. I take them out and try to read them. Most of it I do not understand, it is so hard to decipher and I know scarcely any French. But each word I translate pierces me like a shot in the chest, like a stab in the chest. My brain is taxed beyond endurance. But I realize this much, that I never will dare to write to these people as I intended. Impossible. I look at the portraits once more they are clearly not rich people. I might send them money anonymously if I earn anything later on. I seize upon that, it is at least something to hold on to. This dead man is bound up with my life, therefore I must do everything, promise everything, in order

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to save myself; 1 swear blindly that I mean to live only for his sake and his family, with wet lips I try to placate him —and deep down in me lies the hope that I may buy myself off in this way and perhaps even yet get out of this; it is a little stratagem; if only I am allowed to escape then I will see to it. So I open th* book and read slowly:—Gerald Duval, compositor. With the dead mans pencil I write the address on an envelope then swiftly thrust everything back into his tunic. I have killed the printer, Gerald Duval. I must be a printer, I think confusedly, be a printer, printer CHAPTER XXVI BY afternoon I am calmer. My fear was groundless. The name troubles me no more. The madness passes. “Comrade,” I say

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to the dead man, but I say it calmly, "today you, tomorrow me. “But if I come out of it, comrade. I will fight against this, that has struck us both down; from you, taken life —and from me—? Life also. I promise you, comrade. It never shall happen again.” The sun strikes low. I am stupefied with exhaustion and hunger. Yesterday is like a fog to me. there is no hope of getting out of this yet. I fall into a doze and do not at first realize that evening is approaching. The twilight comes. It seems to me to come quickly now. One hour more. If it were summer, it would be three hours more. One hour more.

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Now suddenly I begin to tremble; something might happen in the interval. I think no more of the dead man, he is of no consequence to me now. (To Be Continued) Copyright 1939. by Little. Brown A Cos.. Distributed by King Features Syndicate. Inc.

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