GI Brides (11 page)

Then even the thought of heaven vanished and he sank into oblivion. If there were more fires, he did not know it. Bombs bursting about him made no impression. If he thought at all, he thought he was dead.

He never knew when comrades came to him, touched his forehead, felt for his pulse, shook their heads.

“Take him up carefully, he’s got a bad wound. He may not be last to get there.”

“Do you think it’s worthwhile to take him in? It seems to me only a matter of a few minutes. He many not live to get there. The room is limited you know, and there are so many who stand a better chance of getting well.”

“Take him in,” said the sergeant. “Give him his chance. He’s a good guy. He’d do as much for you.”

A murmur of assent, gentle handling, lifted and borne. He never knew any of it. If he had, he would have been grateful.

To the swarming semi-privacy of an overcrowded ward he was taken, in a foreign hospital, understaffed, undersupplied, and the weary rushing doctors and nurses with too many patients to attend did their best for him in the intervals between what they considered duty toward more important patients. There was so little hope for Barron. He had lain too long on the battlefield, too long in suffering and loss of blood.

Yet because God had come to him out there on that battlefield and given him a vision of Himself, and spoken a quiet word to his soul, he lived on unexpectedly; slowly, very slowly, he began to recover. It seemed incredible to the nurses, even to the skillful doctors who had done their poor best for him with the small equipment given them. All were astonished at the vitality that kept him alive. Until at last one day they began to understand that he was really coming back to life again.

“Well, Barron, you’re going to get well!” the head doctor said to him one morning as he made his hurried rounds. “That’s swell. You’ll be begging us to let you go back to your outfit again pretty soon, I suppose.”

Benedict Barron turned dreamy eyes to the doctor and studied his face, examined his smile, responded with a comprehending glint in his own eyes.

“Is the fire still there?” he asked after a minute. “Isn’t it all over yet?”

The nurse murmured something about where he had been picked up, and the doctor frowned.

“Oh, I understand!” he said. “No, Barron, the fire in that particular spot you manned is out. Definitely out. They couldn’t take what you gave ’em. The battle has moved farther on, up over the last mountain stronghold. It won’t be long now till we have ’em completely licked!” He gave Ben Barron an affable grin, as well as he could control the poor tired muscles of his face, and Ben tried to smile back.

“Good boy!” said the doctor. “You’re definitely on the mend now, and I guess you’re glad they don’t need you to go through any more fires at present. It was a pretty tough job you had, man! I’m sure you’ll do your best the rest of your life to forget all about it.”

Ben Barron looked at him startled for a moment, with eyes that had so recently been seeing into another world. Then he slowly shook his head.

“No,” he said softly, “I shall never forget. I don’t think I want to forget.”

“You don’t
want
to forget?” said the doctor, astonished. “Why, that’s strange. I’m sure if I had been there I would want to forget it. Why don’t you?”

Ben Barron gave a slow smile that lit up his whole face.

“Because, you see, I met God out there. I had never met Him before. But I met Him, and He talked with me, and now I know Him. I shall never mind dying anymore because now I know the Lord.”

The doctor studied him, startled, with a strange, unaccustomed tenderness about his mouth and moisture in his eyes, and then he said in a grave, husky tone: “Oh, I see!” and he turned away and cleared his throat. “Well, you wouldn’t of course if you had that experience! Well, so long. I’m glad you’re better. And I’ll be seeing you.”

Then he went out in the corridor where the nurses were talking together in low tones, and approached one.

“Say, have you noticed, is that guy in the last bed a bit touched in the head?”

“Why no, Doctor,” said the nurse who had been attending Barron. “I hadn’t noticed it. Why, did he seem wrong to you? He’s a very quiet fellow.”

“Yes, quiet enough perhaps, but he seems to have been seeing visions, or else he hasn’t quite got back to normal yet. Keep a watch on him, will you, and let me know if there are any abnormal developments.” And then he looked into the room once more furtively and gazed at Ben Barron as he lay there on his cot with his eyes closed and a look of real peace on his face. The doctor went on to other patients, wondering to himself, would having a vision of God bring peace to everyone who was wounded?
Was
there a God? He had always thought he didn’t believe there was, but perhaps there was Something. Some Force or Power that worked on weary spirits through nerves that were worn to a frazzle. But that soldier really acted as if he was ready to go out again and fight. As if he really
wanted
to go if there was more fighting to be done. Pity they couldn’t have more soldiers seeing visions if it worked like that on them. This Barron must be a regular guy.

From that day on Benedict Barron grew steadily better, and one morning he asked his nurse for writing materials.

“I want to write a letter,” he said with an apologetic smile.

“Oh! Do you feel able?”

“Sure! I guess I can manage.”

“Going to write to your mother?” she asked as she handed him a tablet and pencil, and arranged his pillows so he could write with the least exertion.

He gave her a sad little smile.

“One can’t write letters to heaven,” he said. “That’s where my mother is now. She doesn’t have to worry about me not getting home.”

“Oh!” said the nurse with gentleness in her voice. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he said. “I’m glad she’s there. She hasn’t had to worry about this war at all.”

“You’ve got something there!” said the nurse gravely. But she asked no more questions about the letter. And when it was finished she took it to mail, and studied the address carefully. Miss Alexia Kendall, Nassau Park, N.Y., U.S.A. An oddly lovely name. Some girl he knew back in the United States. How interesting! She held the letter with respect in her face, and started it out on its long journey.

Ben Barron lay there on his hard narrow cot thinking over the words he had written, and wondering if they would ever reach the person to whom they were addressed.

He knew the words by heart because he had been framing them over and over, reframing them in his mind for days and days before he started to write. And so now he went over them again, questioning each word to be sure it was just the right one.

Ben Barron fell asleep thinking over that letter with a great relief in his mind that he had accomplished it, for it represented to him a debt that he owed the little girl. And now, if there were still more fires for him to pass through, he was ready when they sent him out once more.

L
exie looked at Bettinger Thomas with astonishment mixed with a deep anger. She was not a girl who was quickly angered, but she knew who this man was, what decent people thought of him, and felt herself insulted by his very tone. Should she go into the other room with him and put herself into his power for even another few minutes? Let Elaine see that she had had to give in? No, she couldn’t do that. She could see that just polite dignity wasn’t going to make this man understand that he couldn’t bully her around this way. She had got to get out of his way, or get hold of somebody who could help and protect her. But who could that possibly be? She wasn’t sure of any of the neighbors being at home. Most of them were doing defense work. Besides, Lucinda was due there at any time now, and she must be here to meet her, or all her morning’s work would be wasted.

Lucinda would be no help in this matter. True, she had a sharp tongue and well knew how to use it, but that wouldn’t get anywhere with Bett Thomas nor with Elaine either. It would simply turn Elaine hopelessly against Lucinda, and then where would she be? She didn’t know of another person she could get to stay with Elaine.

All this was going through her mind like a flash while she stood and faced her hateful antagonist, and suddenly her mind was made up. She wasn’t going into the living room with this man, and she wasn’t going to talk finances over with Elaine in his presence. She didn’t know just what she was going to do afterward, but she knew she was going to get out of the house for the moment.

The children were just outside the dining room door now, and arguing with all their might, making a great clatter. Lexie gave a quick glance at the table. Everything was on it they would need except some scrambled eggs she had intended making for them. They could come in and eat without the eggs.

She lifted her chin independently.

“Excuse me,” she said almost haughtily, although there was nothing really haughty in Lexie’s makeup except on an occasion when she felt desperate. “I couldn’t come immediately. There is something I must do first.”

Then she quickly opened the door on the clamoring children whose noise drowned any protest the lawyer was trying to make.

“Angelica, stop talking and bring the children in to their lunch. It is all here on the table. Now be a good girl and take care of Bluebell,” and as they trooped in Lexie stepped out and shut the door sharply behind her, flying frantically down the walk and out into the street.

She turned sharply into a side street, running as if she were intending to hurry back in a moment, and when she heard the front door open and a man’s voice calling her, she was out of sight. He couldn’t know just which way to look. But she did not pause to watch if he would follow her. Of course he had his car there and his chauffeur. They could follow her. What should she do?

She knew that Mrs. Turnbull in the next street just back went early to her job in a riveting plant. No one would be at home there and she could slide through that yard and make her escape to the main highway that led down to the drugstore. If she got there she might be able to hide, or—oh, if there was only someone to whom she could telephone for help! And yet who was there, and what could she say when she found them? The man in the drugstore was no help. He was an old man, a stranger to her, a newcomer since Lexie went to college. But she dashed into the store, and was thankful there were two or three patrons in there talking with the proprietor. She went into the telephone booth and sat down, shutting the door and opening the telephone book, wildly searching her memory for some name she could call where she might at least ask advice—some of her father’s or her mother’s old friends, who for their sake would be kind enough to advise her what to do. But suddenly her eye fell on a name. Foster. That was a familiar name. Judge Foster was her father’s old friend. Was he still alive, and would she dare call on him for advice?

Her hands were trembling as she turned the pages, and tears blurred into her eyes as she tried to think what to do. She simply could not go back and face that obnoxious man, and listen to his slanderous words about her dear mother!

Then there was the name Judge James Foster, and the old address where she had often gone as a little girl with her father to see his friend, and perhaps on business. Dared she call him? There were two addresses. His residence and his office. She would try the office first. Perhaps this wasn’t the right thing to do, but what else was there for her?

Her fingers were trembling as she dialed the number, and her voice was shy and frightened as she asked the severe lady secretary at the other end of the wire for Judge Foster.

“Who is it, please?” came the response.

“Oh,” said Lexie, “I—tell him it is the daughter of his old friend George Kendall. Tell him it is important, and I won’t take but a minute of his time.”

“Hold the wire, please,” the severe voice said.

A moment more and she heard the man’s kindly voice, an old, kind, dependable voice, and her frightened heart leaped thankfully.

“Oh, Judge Foster, is that you? Really
you
? This is Lexie. You wouldn’t remember the little girl who used to come with her father, George Kendall, to your house sometimes, but surely you would remember my father?”