GI Brides (81 page)

“Yes, I find orders here. And no, so far they have not been at variance with my service orders.”

“But I don’t understand. What, for instance, do you find yourself ordered to do? I mean, your God’s orders? Is there a definite order?”

“Oh yes,” said Charlie. “I find myself ordered to witness. That really is the gist of all orders. Witnessing. I find that’s really why I am on this earth.”

“But—I don’t understand! What are you witnessing of? Is it in the nature of a testimony?”

“Yes,” said Charlie, “that’s the idea. And I have to testify to what the Lord Jesus Christ has done for me since I took Him for my personal Savior.”

The officer looked at him steadily, studying him, still holding the little soft book in his hand, as if the very feel of it held charm for him.

“Well, go on,” said the officer. “Testify! What has He done for you?”

Charlie’s face lighted. He answered quickly, eagerly.

“He took all my sins away and bore the punishment that was my due. And He’s made me happy in Him. Even in the face of war! And He’ll do the
same for you
!”

“How do you know that?”

“Because He says so in His word. He says, ‘He that heareth my word, and believeth on him that sent me, hath everlasting life, and shall not come into condemnation; but is passed from death unto life.’”

There was silence for a moment while the officer looked thoughtfully out to sea, and then Charlie spoke again:

“Are you saved, Captain?”

There was another silence while the older man seemed to study the question, and at last he lifted his eyes to Charlie’s, slowly. “I don’t suppose I am. It has never seemed important to me.”

“But, you’ll find it is,” said Charlie. “You can’t be saved just on the glory of bravery in winning a battle. It takes believing in what Christ did for you, and making it
yours.
”

The other man studied Charlie’s face again. At last he said, “Perhaps I’ll think about it. Do you mind if I borrow your book a little while? I’d like to look it over.”

“Yes, take it,” said Charlie, with an eager smile. “You’ll find it’s all I said, for
I
did.”

The officer walked away with the little book in his hand, and Charlie sat for a long time with his eyes closed and prayed for that man who was reading his Testament. And later he went to his quarters and wrote a few brief words to Blythe to tell her how he had had an opportunity to witness for his Lord. Just a few lines, out of the depths of his heart, because he was longing to speak to her. And yet, he was not at all sure that he would ever be able to send them to her, not till the war was over, for he had been told that where he was going there would be no opportunity for him to communicate with the outside world, except in so far as was arranged for his duty in his special war service.

It came to Charlie as a surprise that “witnessing” was a thing that brought returns of great joy, instead of being a task.

But Charlie was not reading his Bible all the free time. He was in demand for sports. Somebody recognized him as a former football hero and broadcast it, and the other fellows flocked around him, always wanting him to join in anything they had on hand in their leisure time. So Charlie was popular, and had ample opportunity to use his commission to “witness.”

He did not go around preaching. He seldom talked of his newfound joy. He simply lived it. Hs face radiated peace. The men talked about him now and then.

“Didn’t some of you say that guy was going out on a special mission without much chance of returning?” asked one.

“They sure did. I heard his captain telling another man. They say there isn’t a chance in a thousand he’ll ever come back. And they say he
volunteered.
He wasn’t just asked to do it, he volunteered.”

“But say, I don’t understand,” said another fellow. “Hasn’t he a girl back home?”

“Yes, Jack, I asked him the other day if he had one and he said he had. I judge she’s a pretty swell one, too, from the way he spoke.”

“Well, say, I don’t get it. How comes it he always looks so happy? He’s as cocky every day as if he was on his way home to get married or something, instead of going as fast as he can to his death. I don’t see how he can look that way.”

“I’ll tell you what it is,” said another quiet fellow, who didn’t often take part in their discussions. “It’s his faith.”

“His
faith
?” exclaimed another. “So what? What’s faith got to do with it? Faith in
what
? Do you mean he’s superstitious?”

“Not on your life,” said the quiet fellow. “It’s his faith in God. He thinks God knows all about this war and is using it for the good of the world, or something of that sort, and he thinks God is guiding everybody that believes in Him, and takes care of them or something like that. And he believes that things will come out for us the way God wants them to, for our best good, or something of that sort. He just
trusts,
and that’s what gives him that sort of look of glory on his face.”

“Well, I should say that might be a good thing to have, a faith like that, only how would one go about to get it?” asked another man.

“Oh, he’ll tell you how to get it,” said the quiet one. “That guy has it all down fine. He knows all the whys and wherefores, and he likes to tell you if you really want to hear, only he’ll never force it on you.”

And it was so that during that long voyage Charlie carried out his new “orders,” and became a daily testimony to his companions, so that in the fearful months that were before them all, his testimony came back to many in their hour of need, when grasping for any help in the dark was all that they could do.

But there came quiet times when he could be by himself for a little while, and in these he wrote precious messages to Blythe, told her of the loveliness of sky and sea and stars, told bits of anecdotes about his companions.

But there came a day when he was to be parted from all these companions who had grown so near to him, and was to go out on his own, into that vast unknown that was to be his destiny.

And before he left he was told that if he had letters to write before he went into that great necessary silence he might write them now, and they would be sent in due time back to the loved ones, yet there was to be no mark about them to show where they were written, nor from what post sent; they were to be brief and simple personalities, like a message from the dead.

Charlie was one of seven who were to go on like missions, though they were not going together, nor to the same destinations.

And so he wrote that night:

And then, into a starless night, he set sail toward a battlefield, his instructions written in his heart, his instruments of service well hidden, his plans well laid. And if he came not back, so be it! He was satisfied. He was going in the strength of the Lord, though his sponsors were not aware of that. They only knew that he was an unusual young man, and it was a pity that such a man had to die. Yet no other man they knew could do the work he was going over to do, as well as he could. That was why he had been chosen for the job.

So at last Charlie Montgomery was on his way to his meeting with death.

Meantime, back in his own land, Charlie’s first good-bye message entrusted to Walter Blake had just reached Blythe.

It came about in this way. Walter, when he found that he was not to have the hoped-for few days’ furlough before he went overseas, had kept he little message wrapped, still in his Testament, with the faint hope that somehow there might happen to be a brief stop at his hometown, even if only for a few hours, and he could still have time to take it around to the Bonniwell house himself and present it, perhaps to the lady herself, for he much craved to see how she looked, this ladylove of his beloved hero.

But at the last minute Walter’s orders were changed, and he was slipped into the place of another fellow who had been taken ill and had to go to the hospital. So Walter Blake did not get home as he had hoped, and the tiny scribbled message was carried overseas with him. It often troubled Walter, but things had been so hurried at the end. What else could he have done?

In due time Walter arrived in a semi-stationary place overseas, and one day in going over his effects he came on the little wrapped message and decided that he ought to do something about it.

So he sat down to write home to his mother and put the note in her care. If she thought it wasn’t too late she would be able to give it to Miss Bonniwell.

So he wrote this letter:

The next day after Mrs. Blake received this was Red Cross class day, and Blythe Bonniwell would likely be there. She hunted out a clean envelope and put the soiled worn little cellophane packet in it, put the envelope in her handbag, and started happily on her way.

Blythe was a bit late that morning. There was a dressmaker at the house doing a little altering, shortening skirts, and the like, and she had been in demand for trying on and being measured. So she came in a little late and went to her usual seat beside Mrs. Blake, which was always carefully left for her now, and was greeted by a radiant smile from the grateful woman who basked quietly in her lovely presence.

“I’ve a bit of a letter for you,” she said in a low tone, after they were seated and the work of the day mapped out.

“A letter for me,” said Blythe happily. “Why, how lovely!”

“Yes,” said the other woman shyly. “It’s my boy Walter has sent it. Maybe he was a bit presuming, but he asked me to pass it on to you, and I guess it’ll be all right.”

“But—a letter for me—from your son?” asked Blythe interestedly. “That is nice. But how did he come to write to me?”

“Why, you see, it isn’t from Walter, strictly speaking, but he’s sending it on to you from a young man who says he is a friend of yours. He’s someone Walter met at the camp on the way, and he’s a young man Walter always admired. You see, he was a football hero, and Walter was just that crazy about him during his school days. I could scarcely get him home in time to do his evening work. He was always going to those games. And when he got out to this camp, here comes this young man walking off the train and smiling at Walter, like home folks, and he was that glad to see him that he stuck by him whenever he had the chance. His name is Charlie Montgomery. Will you be remembering anybody by that name?” Mrs. Blake studied the girl’s face anxiously to see how she reacted to the name, and when the rosy color flew into her cheeks, she had no more fear.

“Charlie Montgomery! I should say I do! Do you say your boy has sent me a message from Charlie?”

“Yes, that’ll be it,” said Mrs. Blake, and she opened her purse and took out the small envelope that contained the battered note Walter had sent.

Blythe took it in eager trembling fingers, unwrapped it carefully, and read with a radiant glow on her face. Mrs. Blake watched until she was satisfied that the girl was pleased, and then she fumbled in her bag and got out Walter’s letter and presented it.

“That’s my boy’s letter, telling about how he met Mr. Montgomery,” she said shyly. “I brought it along. I thought perhaps you’d like to read it. Of course, it’s not much of a letter. He’s only a little over seventeen, you know, and not yet through his school, but I had to sign up for him, he felt so left out when his brothers went to war and left him behind.”

“Oh, yes, I’d love to read it,” said Blythe, accepting the young soldier’s letter as if it was a privilege to see it, and the look in her face as she read it made more than one woman in the class look at the girl enviously and admiringly.