“God, be with him,” he prayed in his heart continually. “If he is in peril, protect him; if he is weary with the long battle, give him strength; and if he needs a helper, send me, please, Father God.”
On into the night they went, till it seemed the morning would never come. Black night everywhere, for the moon had gone its way now, and the clouds were folded across till scarcely a star dared glisten through the murky darkness of smoke and fire and death. It must be that the angels mourned as they looked down upon that night of carnage.
The firing had been incessant, the fight fierce on every hand. The dead were everywhere, and no man had time for rest. This was a battle to the death.
Walter had been everywhere, doing his duty without a thought of self or fear, and his heart was filled with prayer. “Oh God, keep Charlie.”
Perhaps the captain understood how he felt and kept him busy. Now and again came messages, signals from treetops or the underground. Walter was waiting for a message from the captain to be passed on to his major when the word came, “Impossible to hold outlooks longer. Tanks are uprooting trees. Look out for 246. Coming down.”
Walter’s heart began to tremble.
“Oh, God, aren’t You going to let him get through? Aren’t You going to keep Your promise?”
He was praying so hard that unconsciously he had closed his eyes and bowed his head. His captain looked at him curiously, almost reverently, and a shade of pity went over his face. Then Walter looked up and caught his captain’s glance.
“Captain, that’s Charlie!” he said. And the captain bowed his head in assent.
“Yes, son, that’s Charlie,” he said, and there was infinite sadness in his glance. “Now, get this to the major as quick as possible. We must put in some men and stop that flank movement.” Then he saw the alert look come back into Walter’s eyes as he took the message with a quick “Yes sir” and sprang forward. The captain had rightly judged that the boy who loved Charlie so would be quickest reached by duty, a message to be carried forward.
It was two hours later and still blackest night when Walter heard a voice almost beneath his feet. Charlie’s voice. He must have moved his underground radio. A hurried emergency station, trusting it would be heard. There! That was the voice again! “Keep it up till morning and we’ll be more than conquerors. The enemy is on the run. Sorry I can’t go on. They got me as I came down the tree. I’m getting out now. I’m done. Somebody take over. This is Charlie signing off.”
Walter crept closer and called in that cautious tone they had all acquired when the enemy might be near, “Charlie! Charlie! This is Walter! Wait! I’ll come and get you.”
There was no sound but a kind of grating noise from underground like a heavy body pulling out, and Walter realized it was his business to report this to his superior officer at once. Reluctantly he turned away, marked the location by treetops overhead as well as he could, and sped back to headquarters with his report.
The captain listened understandingly and gave swift orders for the next move in following the enemy. Then he turned to Walter.
“Can you find that place where you heard Charlie’s voice, son?” he asked.
“Yes sir, I’m sure I can. I looked up and got the location.”
“Ah!” said the captain. “Perhaps we don’t look up enough.”
“Sir?” asked Walter.
“It’s all right, son, you did the right thing,” he said. “Lead these men to the place. This man knows how to take over if Charlie left his machine still there.”
“May I stay till I find Charlie?”
There was such pleading in the boy’s eyes that the captain could not tell him no.
“Not too long, boy. We can’t afford to lose you, too. Charlie wouldn’t want that.”
“I’ll be careful, Captain,” said the boy, overjoyed to have the permission at last he had craved so long. And Walter went away into the blackness. Looking up, he found his skyline, pointed out the place, and silently in darkness they went to work, meantime keeping keen watch for stray snipers. And at last they found the machine that had brought so many of Charlie’s messages to headquarters and saved so many lives, but they did not find a man inside the foxhole. Charlie had got out and crept away. Where? How far? Into more enemy fire?
The man who took over Charlie’s work crept inside the foxhole, sending his guards here and there to watch. But Walter stole away into the darkness, searching for Charlie.
The rest of the night he searched, coming to body after body lying dead on the ground, now and then finding one that he wasn’t sure of, turning on his small flashlight to study the face, but none of them was the right one. How far had Charlie been able to go after he crept from that hole?
The morning was beginning to break, but the fighting had died away. Was it true that the enemy was on the run? Still he crept on. Mindful of his promise to his captain, he crept low, over the piles of slain, looking sharply at them one by one, telling himself that he must be sure. Charlie would have changed some perhaps, all these months of strenuous work! Oh, he must make no mistakes. Even the dead body of that beloved one would be better than nothing. He had a trust to keep for that girl that Charlie loved. She would ask him someday if he did everything that could have been done to find her beloved.
On he crept, praying, “Oh God, guide me to him!”
Over the ridge he crept, where the fighting had been the thickest all the day before and last night. The slain were piled high, with no one to care except those at home who would never know just how their dear ones went. Some of these dead were lads he knew, but most of them were enemies, fallen as they fought, together. Would God gather them and separate them according to His judgment? Walter was thankful it was not his task to judge any of them. Some of them were likely saved ones, and more of them had never known their God at all, or else rejected Him. But there they lay together, awaiting the Judgment Day and a just and righteous Judge.
Solemn thoughts were these to come to this young Christian as he crept among the slain, seeing only now and then one who stirred or moaned. And once or twice he lifted a dying head and gave parched lips a drink of water from his canteen. Till all the water at last was spent.
Then as the pale dawn crept into the east, he saw below him a gleam of water. A narrow winding river. He would go down quickly and fill his canteen. It might be desperately needed before long.
So cautiously he crept on, careful to look above to the treetops for his bearings and keeping a watch out for any stirring enemy or sniper. But all was quiet. He must get out of here quickly. If there should be an enemy nearby, now as the dawn was lightening, he would be an easy mark, here with the reflection of the bright water on his tired face.
Below him on a shelving piece of flat rock at the very brink of the river, he saw a still form, prostrate, as if trying to drink from the river. The back of the man’s shirt was soaked with blood, a wide crimson gash, and there was crimson on the water where he had drunk. Poor soul, he had likely been shot as he lay slaking his thirst after a terrible night of fighting. The thought hastened Walter’s own movements. He must go on with his search. It was important that he find Charlie before he lost too much blood. He must fill his canteen full and get on quickly.
He found a clear place in the water, filled his canteen, and started to go back up over the ridge, but something in the attitude of that quiet form lying at the water’s edge startled him, something familiar. He could not get away from it, and in spite of his promised caution, he had to turn back to look again at that man. Was he really dead?
Softly he knelt down and crept close; closer down to the river’s brink where he could look into the man’s face. He did not know why he felt he must do this, but there was something that compelled him, and so, bending low, he flashed for an instant the tiny light he carried into the soldier’s face, and suddenly he saw that it was Charlie! Thin, emaciated, ungroomed, his hair heavy over the weary brow, but still it was Charlie. Charlie, who had been out there
meeting death day by day, all alone with God and death! Charlie, whom he loved, and whom the girl back in the hometown loved. Charlie!
Then suddenly the necessity was upon him to get Charlie out and away from this place, where if there was an enemy about he could so easily be seen. He must get Charlie, dead or alive.
Walter did not stop to question whether Charlie was still alive—just unconscious but alive—or whether he was dead. It made no difference now until he had him safely away from further danger.
So with strong young arms he went to work, lifting and drawing the thin body away from the bright water, turning him over, and trying to get the right grip to bear him away. No time now to make the usual tests to see if life was still there. He must get that precious body safely away first.
And so, slowly, working with all his strength, his heart calling upon his God for help, Walter at last succeeded in getting the man in his arms and up across his shoulder, so that he could climb the ridge and get him back to friendly territory, back where there was a doctor and nurses, and a hospital not so far away. Panting, deliberately he climbed, knowing he could not complete the task if he used his own energy too quickly. Climbing till he reached the top of the ridge, where he paused and looked around him—still the same as when he came that way before, a field of dead men. He looked above and took his bearings again from the treetops, then turned and made his way laboriously until he came to the place where he had heard the voice coming from the ground. There he found the guards, two of whom came at once to his assistance.
“Oh, that’s bad!” said one. “Is he dead?”
“I don’t know,” said Walter. “Don’t wait to find out. Let’s get him quick to the doctor. I don’t believe he’s dead. God wouldn’t let him die.”
They gave him a strange look. The guards did not know Walter, nor Charlie either. They were tired and hungry and had had a long, hard night. They wanted it to end and get some rest. But they went silently, helping to carry that gallant, tattered soldier, and they marched to headquarters like a funeral procession, bearing him as one would bear the body of a great hero, and laid him down tenderly on the cot that had been hastily prepared. Then the doctors and the nurses came quickly and worked, listened, made tests. Was the hero-conqueror still living?
Walter Blake stood apart in the shadow of the dawning morning, and watched and prayed.
And over on the other side of the world a girl knelt by her bedside and prayed.
Chapter 21
We certainly miss Blythe Bonniwell,” said Mrs. Felton, as she looked over the enormous pile of partly finished garments left from the last meeting. “Look at all these little nighties, all finished but the buttonholes! We certainly can’t find anybody to take Blythe’s place on buttonholes. Look at that one, will you? Somebody has just simply tried to whip over the buttonholes. Imagine it. Just about five stitches to a hole, too. They would never stay buttoned half a minute, and they would tear right out by the second day. Now, every one of those buttonholes has got to be ripped out and done over.”
“But I thought that whole pile was finished,” complained Mrs. Frazee, a worried, frivolous little trifle of a woman who didn’t do anything very well anyway, and simply couldn’t make buttonholes.
Mrs. Felton looked up and immediately knew who had over-and-overed those buttonholes.
Then Mrs. Butler came in from the back room where she had been going over a box that was supposed to be packed and ready to go to headquarters in the city. Her arms were filled with a sizeable pile of unfinished garments. Obviously unfinished!
“Well, of all things!” said Mrs. Felton, looking at the unfinished ones. “Where did you get those?”
“Out in the back room, all nicely packed in with the finished things. I caught a glimpse of a stain on the top one, and when I looked at it, I found the whole lot was unfinished. Why, look, only the side seams are basted up. Just one shoulder finished!”
“Hm!” said Mrs. Felton significantly. “Those are the last ones that Anne Houghton worked on before she went out and got married. Don’t you remember, she pricked her finger? That’s the blood stain. She certainly was the laziest and the most petty gal I ever came across. I’m certainly glad she’s married and out of the way for a while.”
“For a while?” said Mrs. Frazee. “What do you mean, ‘for a while’?”
“Oh, that kind seldom stays married very long. They always carry a divorce up their sleeves. That is, unless they have a subnormal husband with a wide patience, and if I know my onions, I wouldn’t judge Dan Seavers to be one of those,” said Mrs. Felton.
“Well, I’ve seen some pretty dirty tricks from people who ought to know better and were brought up to have good manners,” said Mrs. Butler, “but this beats them all. Sliding out of the work and pretending it was all done, and then leaving all that stuff undone to go off and count against our group. But what gets me is, how are we going to get all this back work caught up in time to make our report?”
Mrs. Blake had come in while they were talking, and now she spoke.
“Why,” she said smiling, “I believe I know. We’ll get Blythe to take these extra buttonholes home and do them. She has a lot of time on her hands when her mother is resting, and yet she had to be there lest she should waken. She was saying yesterday that she missed her war work and wished there was something she could do at home in her extra time.”
“Why, that’s wonderful!” said Mrs. Felton. “Do you really think she would?”
“Surely I do,” said Mrs. Blake happily. “I’ll go to the telephone right away and ask her. I don’t mind asking her in the least, because she said to me she wanted something.”
So Mrs. Blake telephoned Blythe and explained how far behind they were, especially on buttonholes, and that they had no one who could make good ones, and Blythe accepted with enthusiasm. Mrs. Blake came back smiling.
“She says she’d love to do it,” she said, picking up her work and dropping briskly onto her chair. “I told her I’d bring the garments over with me when I got home this noon. Mrs. Felton, you get it all together. And put in everything! ‘The more, the better’ she said.”
“Well, that’s a great relief,” said Mrs. Felton. “I think we can begin to take a new heart of hope about our report now.”
The class became a busy, happy place for the next two hours. They talked of war and how it would be when peace would come. They spoke of the boys coming home sometime. They spoke softly, guardedly, of some who would not come back.
“They say there’s two or three from our town who are reported this morning as missing in action,” lisped Mrs. Frazee. “I don’t know who they are. At least, I heard the names, but I didn’t know any of them. It won’t be a very merry Christmas for their families. That ‘missing in action’ is such a horrible thing, you know. That might mean almost anything dreadful in this war. Prisoners of war, internment camps! They say they simply starve them there. And then, so many seem to be taken out and shot or something. It really doesn’t seem very Christmasy, does it? It doesn’t seem a very good background for our Christmas party. Oh, dear me! And the favors are so very lovely and the invitations hand painted, and quite modern.”
It doesn’t seem to me it’s very patriotic to have such fool things as parties when this terrible war is going on,” said Mrs. Butler grimly. “I, for one, would much rather see them get up a prayer meeting, though goodness knows I’m not much for praying and hardly ever go to a prayer meeting myself. But somehow I can’t see how people can be so frivolous when their relatives are being tortured and killed by the thousand, and we’re all going without proper meat and butter and working our heads off to win the war. And then somebody gets up a big party and they have a supper that would feed all the refugees in the nation. And they buy a lot of fool dresses that don’t half cover them, and go around flirting and smirking and eating and drinking just as if there was nothing the matter with the world and some of their best friends weren’t dying every day, just as if they were d
oing it all to be patriotic. Personally I don’t think it’s right!”
“Right!” said little Mrs. Frazee in alarm. “You don’t think we ought to sit around and weep all the time till the boys come back, do you?”
“Mercy no, what good would that do?” said Mrs. Butler. “But I don’t think we should get up big blowouts and spend a lot of money and eat up a lot of unnecessary food, when there are folks who are starving.”
“But if we make plenty of money having parties and buy a lot of war bonds with it, that would make it all right, wouldn’t it?” Mrs. Frazee’s big baby-blue eyes were lifted pitifully.
“You can’t make a wrong thing right by doing good with it,” said Mrs. Butler grimly.
“But, Mrs. Butler, you can’t think it is wrong to have parties can you?”
“Well, there are times that are more suitable for parties than the present,” said Mrs. Butler fiercely. “Personally, if my son was out there fighting, I wouldn’t feel like going to a merrymaking.” Mrs. Butler’s face had a self-righteous glow. “It certainly isn’t good taste to be giddy when the nation is in sorrow.”
“Do you mean the government is against parties?” asked Mrs. Frazee, “I thought they were saying we must keep cheerful.”
“They do,” said Mrs. Felton. “Don’t be silly. You’ve got to go ahead with your party now it’s started. Mrs. Butler just means we’ve got so much really necessary work to do in more practical lines that it seems a pity to waste time hand-painting invitations, but maybe there are some people who couldn’t do anything else, so why worry? Mrs. Butler, will you pass me those scissors? I seem to have left my own at home.”