Indianapolis Times, Volume 41, Number 119, Indianapolis, Marion County, 27 September 1929 — Page 25

MX outer ON mWEJTCRIy F/tOVT^IKS

9 CHAPTER XXXI < Continued) What u is It to him now that fce was such a good mathematician at school? * B B The months pass by. The summer of 1918 is the most bloody and most terrible. The days stand like angels in gold and blue, incomprehensible, above the ring of annihila • tion. Every man here knows that we are losing the war. Not much is said about it. We are falling back, we will not be able to attack again aftere this big offensive, we have no more men and no more ammunition. Still the campaign goes on—the dying gees on— Summer of 1918—Never has life In its niggardliness seemed to us so desirable as now—the red poppiese in the meadows round our billets, the smooth beetles on the blades of grass, the warm evenings in the cool, dim rooms, the black, mysterious trees of the twilight, the stars and the flowing waters, dreams and long •!eep—O life, life, life! Summer of 1918—never was so much silently suffered as in the moment when we depart once again for the front-line. Wild, tormenting rumors of an armistice and peace are in the air, they lay hold on our hearts and make the return to the front harder than ever. Summer of 1918— Never was life In the line more bitter and more full of horror than in the hours of the bombardment, when the blanched faces lie in the dirt, and the hands clutch at the one thought: No! No! Not now! Not now at the last moment! Summer of 1918—Breath of hope that sweeps over the scorched fields, raging fever of impatience, of disappointment, of the most agonizing terror of death, incensate question: Why? Why do they not make an end? And why do these rumors of an end fly about?

CHAPTER XXXIT THERE are so many airmen here, and they are so sure of themselves that they give chase to single individuals, just as though they were hares. For every German plane there come at least five English and American. For one hungry, wretched German soldier come five of the enemy, fresh and fit. For one German army loaf there are fifty tins of canned beef over there. We are not beaten, for as soldiers we are better and more experienced; we are simply crushed and driven back by overwhelmingly superior forces. Behind us lie rainy weeks grey sky, grey fluid earth, grey dying. If we go out, the rain at once soaks through our overcoat and clothing —and we remain wet all the time we are in the line. We never get. dry. Those who still wear high boots tie sand bags round the top so that the mud does rot pour in so fast. The rifles are raked, the uniforms caked, everything is fluid and dissolved, the earth one dripping, soaked, oil mass in which lie the yellow pools with red spiral streams of blood into which the dead, wounded and survivors slowly sink. The storm lashes us, out. of the confusion of grey and yellow the hail of splinters whips forth the child-like cries of the wounded, and in the night shattered life groans wearily to the silence. Our hands are earth, our bodies flay and our eyes popls of rain.

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iWe do not know whether we still i live. Then the heat sinks heavily Into our shell holes like a jelly fish, moist and oppressive, and on one of these late summer days, while bringing food, Kat falls. We two are alone. I bind up his wound: his shin seems to be smashed. It has got the bone, and Kat groans desperately: “At last— Just at the last—” I comfort him. “Who knows how long this mess will go on yet! Now you are saved— ’’ The wound begins to bleed fast. Kat can not be left by himself while I try 7 to find a stretcher. Anyway, I don't know of a stretcher bearer's post in the neighborhood. Kat is not very heavy; so I take him up on my back and start off to the dressing station with him. Twice we rest. He suffers acutely on the way. We do not speak much. I have opened the collar of my tunic and breathe heavily. I sweat and my face Is swollen with the strain of carrying. All the same I urge him to let us go on for the place is dangerous. “Shall we go on again, Kat?” "Must, Paul.” “Then come.” I raise him up. he stands on the uninjured leg and supports himself

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against a tree. I take up the wounded leg carefully, then he gives a jump and I take the knee of the sound leg also under my arm. The going is more difficult. Often a shell whistles across. I go as quickly as I can, for the blood from Kat's wound drips to the ground. Wo can not shelter ourselves properly from the explosions; before we can take cover the danger is all over. We lie down in a small shell hole to rest. I give Kat some tea from my water bottle. We smoke a cigaret. “Well, Kat,” I say gloomily, "we are going to be separated at last.” He is s lent and looks at me. “Do you remember, Kat, how we commandeered the goose? And how you brought me out of the barrage when I was still a young recruit and was wounded for the first time? I cried then. Kat, that is almost three years ago.” He nods. The anguish of solitude rises up in me. When Kat is taken away I will not have one friend left. “Kat, in any case we must see each other again, if it is peace time before you come back. “Do you think that I will be marked A1 again with this leg?” he asks bitterly.

“With rest it will get better. The joint is all right. It may limp a bit.” “Give me another cigaret,” he says. “Perhaps we could do something together later on, Kat.” lam very miserable, it is impossible that Kat. —Kat raj’ friend, Kat with the drooping shoulders and the poor, thin mustache, Kat, whom I know as I know no other man, Kat with whom I have shared 'these years—it is impossible that perhaps I shall not see Kat again. “In any case give me your address at home. Kat. And here is mine, I will write it down for you.” I write his address in my pocketbook. How forlorn I am already, though he still sits here beside me. Couldn't I shoot myself quickly in the foot so as to be able to go with him? Suddenly Kat gurgles and turns green and yellow. “Let us go on,” he stammers. I jump up, eager to help him, I take him up and start off at a run, a slow steady pace, so as not to jolt his leg too much. (To Be Continued) Copyright 1929. by Little. Brown & Cos., Distributed by King Features Syndicate. Inc

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