GI Brides (82 page)

“What in the world is that woman showing Blythe Bonniwell that she’s making such a fuss over?” asked Anne Houghton contemptuously. “Probably some petition she wants signed or some contribution for her church or something. Blythe doesn’t seem to realize she’s just simply spoiling that woman. She’ll be after us all probably, and get to be unbearable. I declare I think somebody ought to warn Blythe not to be so horribly chummy with a woman like that. It just reacts on the rest of us.”

“How you must hate that girl,” said Mrs. Felton, who happened to be sitting next to Anne. “What’s the idea? Are you jealous of her, or something?”

A great smoldering anger burned up into Anne’s face as she flashed her eyes at Mrs. Felton. “I,
jealous
? What an idea! What has she got for me to be jealous of, I’d like to know?” she asked with contempt.

“I’m sure I wouldn’t know,” said Mrs. Felton amusedly. “But it looks as if there must be something, for you never lose an opportunity to say something mean about her, and I wonder why?”

Anne tossed her head and shrugged her shoulders indifferently.

“Oh, you don’t understand,” said Anne. “I don’t think she’s of enough importance for that, but it amuses me the airs she takes on with people she must see the rest of us haven’t taken up yet. I suppose she’s trying to reprove us, she thinks she’s so superior and so righteous. She makes me tired. Well, it doesn’t matter.” And Anne yawned daintily, behind a jeweled hand. “I suppose there will always be all kinds of people in the world, and we just have to put up with them.”

“We certainly
do
,” said Mrs. Felton pointedly.

But Blythe was reading Walter’s letter and seeing Charlie as he stood on the step of the car and wrote that precious tiny message to her. Her face was radiant, and her eyes bright.

“Just look at her,” said Anne, with a sneer. “You know she’s not that interested in any papers that woman can bring. Not
that
interested anyway.”

And then Mrs. Felton was prompted to put this to a test. She turned quickly toward Blythe.

“What is it, Blythe, that interests you so? Read it out and let us all enjoy it.”

Then Blythe looked up and smiled, her eyes alight. She wasn’t embarrassed, not even a little bit, for Blythe had poise, lovely poise.

“Oh,” she said pleasantly, just as if she thought they were all dear friends. “Why, you see, it’s a letter from Mrs. Blake’s boy, Walter, and he’s been meeting an old friend of mine who sent me a message. Wasn’t that great? They’re somewhere on the other side. Of course we don’t know just where, but it’s wonderful to get word from people who have been gone so long, after the great silence that envelops them once they are doing anything important.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Felton interestedly, “have you a son in the service, Mrs. Blake? I didn’t know that before.”

“Yes,” said little Mrs. Blake quietly, a soft flush spreading over her shy cheeks, “I have three sons in service.”

“Why, Mrs. Blake! How wonderful!” burst forth several women in chorus. “How was it we never knew that before? We certainly ought to honor you. You’re one of our war mothers.”

Mrs. Blake looked uncomfortable. She did not desire this publicity.

“I’ll tell you what we ought to do,” said one of the younger married women. “We’ll give her a tea. I’ll make the cookies and maybe some darling little sandwiches. I suggest we have it Thursday afternoon. Will that be a good day for you all? Can you come then, Mrs. Blake?”

“I’m sorry, no. I couldn’t come any afternoon. I work in a war plant afternoons. And please, don’t give me any tea. I couldn’t take time to come at any time, and it really wouldn’t be right in these wartimes. Send the cookies to your own boys at the front, and forget about me, please. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go or I shall be late at my job. Good-bye.” And Ms. Blake picked up her coat and hat from the hook on the wall nearby and slipped quietly out of the room. But Mrs. Felton gave an amused withering look toward Anne Houghton before she folded her work and went to get her own wraps. Anne was wearing an inscrutable look, with her haughty chin in the air, and Blythe was stepping out the door like one who walked on wings. There must have been something in that Blake boy’s letter beyond a mere hello from a soldier boy to make Blythe’s eyes shine like that. Mrs. Felton was a wise woman, and a good reader of faces. Moreover, she liked Blythe, and she did not like Anne Houghton.

But it turned out after that that everybody in the class became kind and gracious toward Mrs. Blake. All but Anne Houghton. They smiled at her when she came in, and asked after her boys at the front, and made little pleasant remarks to her just as they did to the other women, and Mrs. Blake began presently to feel like one of the crowd. Not that she had minded their distant attitude so very much. She was very humble-minded, but it was nice not to have that chilly feeling around her heart whenever she entered the Red Cross room. So she was grateful.

But she was glad most of all about the look in that sweet Blythe’s eyes when she gave her the bit of paper her Walter had sent. To think that it should be Walter’s adored friend who was
her
friend!

W
alter Blake was really only a kid when he went into the army, but he went with his whole heart, determined to give his all if need be to help win the war.

But when Walter met his old admiration, Charlie Montgomery, and went through those three days with him in that training camp on the way “somewhere,” and what is still more, after Walter had gone with Charlie to those three wonderful meetings under the leadership of Lieutenant Silverthorn, there was a great difference. He would never forget those meetings nor the truths he learned there. He had that feeling of constant companionship now with God, that gave him strength and courage and had taken away the fear he used to have sometimes when he thought about going out to face the fire of the enemy.

So Walter began to grow in spirit as he grew in stature, and others began to notice it and to take account of him. His officers began to see, and now and again to favor him.

One day he was on duty near his captain’s quarters, and the captain, as he had been doing lately, fell into casual conversation with him, asking a few questions about his home—just a friendly gesture with a soldier to whom he had taken a great liking.

Then suddenly Walter asked a question.

“Captain, there’s something I would like to ask you, if it’s all right with you. If it’s something you oughtn’t to answer, why that’s all right by me. I’ll understand. But it’s something I’d like very much to know.”

The captain looked up, surprised.

“Why, of course, son, go ahead.” The captain spoke like a man and a father, rather than a captain, with a gleam of sympathy in his eye.

“Well, sir, how would one go to work to get transferred to another line of service? Is that possible when one has got so far?”

“What’s the matter, son? Don’t you like your outfit? Don’t you like your officers?”

“Oh, yes sir! Sure I like ’em all right. But you see, sir, I always wanted to get right into the thick of things. Real fighting, you know. Real danger. You see, I’ve got two brothers in this thing, and I want to do my share.”

“Oh, you needn’t worry about that, kid,” said the captain. “You’ll get all the fighting and danger you’ll want to see pretty soon. I mean it for a fact, soldier boy. Doesn’t that make you feel any better?”

“Yes, sorta.” But Walter’s face did not brighten to suit his professed zeal.

“What is it, kid? What’s on your mind? It won’t do any harm to own up. I may be able to straighten it out for you.”

Walter was still for a minute and then he said, lifting a grave face, “Well, you see, Captain, I got a buddy. Or maybe he was more of a pal, though he was older than I. But he comes from our hometown, and he’s a swell fellow. He was tops in football when he was in college, and I’ve followed him around and watched his games for years, even when I was just a little kid in grammar school. And now he’s gone out on one of those special assignments where they never expect to come back, you know. I don’t know where he’s gone. He didn’t know himself the last I saw him before we left the States, and I’d have given a good deal if I could have gone with him. But of course that wasn’t possible. His was a solo assignment. But I’ve been thinking a lot about him lately. If I could just get exchanged to be somewhere near him, I’d like it a lot. You see, I feel he might need someone to help him out, help him mebbe to get back home to his girl, if he was to get wounded or be taken prisoner or something. I’d like to get near where he was so I’d be there to help if he needed me. Of course, I know everyone can’t be near the ones they think the most of, but since he’s gone to a post of great danger, if there was any way to get near him, I’d like to try for it.”

“I see,” said the captain thoughtfully. “And you’ve carried this on your mind for some time, haven’t you?”

“Yes sir.”

“Well, what makes you so anxious about it just now? Got any idea where he might be?”

“No sir, only I was hearing the radio telling about the enemy offensive, and if he should be one of the men to go into danger after information about what’s going to happen, I should think that would be perhaps about where he would be. I just thought he might not be so far off.”

“Well, that sounds like reasonable thinking,” said the captain, looking thoughtful. “Do you care to tell me the soldier’s name? Or is that a military secret also?”

The boy lifted troubled eyes.

“His name’s Charlie Montgomery,” he said, lifting his head proudly, “and he’s a swell guy. But of course, he may be killed by this time. He fully expected that. Only I can’t rest easy till I’m sure he wouldn’t need me.”

“I see,” said the officer. “Well, lad, I’ll look into this, and make the inquiries about transfers and so forth, but I’m pretty sure that the place where you belong is the place where you are. If you’re needed elsewhere that might come later. Just do your duty day by day, and if greater tasks are ahead, wait till they catch up with you. Still, I might be able to look up some records and find out if your friend is still alive. Give me his rating, and I’ll try and find out. Would that help any?”

“It sure would help a lot,” said Walter.

“Only, how about it? If he isn’t living, would that upset you so you couldn’t be as good a soldier?”

“No sir, I’d want to be a better soldier, to sort of make up for his going, for he’s an all-right guy, and no mistake. I know I couldn’t ever make up for him, but I’d do the best I could.”

The captain winked back a mist that came to his eyes as he watched Walter march tall and straight and proudly away when he was relieved from guard, and he marveled again at the mere boys who were showing such mature degrees of bravery. He would do his best to find out about Montgomery now, he told himself, and he sincerely hoped that he was still alive.

That was the beginning of a closer relationship between Walter and his captain, and many a brief talk they had on one subject or another, till the captain came to respect the lad who seemed to have such a firm faith in God even in the midst of war, and to wonder over the influence that the other young man seemed to have acquired over him even though he was older and had not been closely associated with him during the years, and then only a few days at the end. But the captain took the pains to have the records looked up, and after a time he took the trouble to hunt Walter up and tell him that so far there had been no report of Charlie’s being killed, or even that he was missing in action, so that he must still be “somewhere” on his important and secret mission.

That was a comfort to Walter, although it did not prevent him from constant watching for word from his friend. And when there had been a battle nearby, and it was at all possible for him to get permission to help with the group who went out to rescue and bring back their wounded and dead, Walter was always a volunteer.

From one huddled still form to another he would go, give a keen glance into the dead face, and pass on, or offer a drink of water from his canteen to the parched lips of a dying man, or a kindly word. And sometimes he would kneel and pray for a soul that was going out into darkness alone and wanted a prayer. There were many such opportunities. And although Walter wasn’t a chaplain, and made no pretensions religiously before the men, he came to be known as one who was good to send to a dying man, a “guy who knew just the right thing to say,” and his own heart-life grew richer as he was able to help others. So with days of drill and nights of grave searching among the dead, the lines of Walter’s young face, which had been almost childlike when he first joined the army, became more deeply graven, and a great gentleness and peace came into his eyes that made his superiors wonder as they observed him from day to day.

It was about this time that he wrote a letter to his mother.