Joy in the Morning Part 1

Joy in the Morning.

by Mary Raymond s.h.i.+pman Andrews.

DEDICATION

To the two stars of a service flag, to a brother and a son who served in France, this book is dedicated. No book, to my thinking, were one Shakespere and Isaiah rolled together, might fittingly answer the honor which they, with four million more American soldiers, have brought to their own. So that the stories march out very proudly, headed by the names of

CHAPLAIN HERBERT s.h.i.+PMAN

AND

CAPTAIN PAUL s.h.i.+PMAN ANDREWS

NOTE

Now that the tide of Khaki has set toward our sh.o.r.es instead of away; now that the streets are filled with splendid boys with gold chevrons of foreign service or no less honorable silver chevrons of service here; now that the dear lads who sleep in France know that the "torch was caught" from their hands, and that faith with them was kept; now that--thank G.o.d, who, after all, rules--the war is over, there is an old word close to the thought of the nation. "Heaviness may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning." A whole country is so thinking.

For possibly ten centuries the Great War will be a background for fiction. To us, who have lived those years, any tale of them is a personal affair. Every-day women and men whom one meets in the street may well say to us: "My boy was in the Argonne," or: "My brother fought at St. Mihiel." Over and over, unphrased, our minds echo lines of that verse found in the pocket of the soldier dead at Gallipoli:

"_We_ saw the powers of darkness put to flight, _We_ saw the morning break."

Crushed and glorified beyond all generations of the planet, war stories p.r.i.c.k this generation like family records. It is from us of to-day that the load is lifted. We have weathered the heaviness of the night; to us "Joy cometh in the morning."

M.R.S.A.

THE DITCH

PERSONS

THE BOY an American soldier

THE BOY'S DREAM OF HIS MOTHER

ANGeLIQUE } } French children JEAN-BAPTISTE }

THE TEACHER

THE ONE SCHOOLGIRL WITH IMAGINATION

THE THREE SCHOOLGIRLS WITHOUT IMAGINATION

HE

SHE

THE AMERICAN GENERAL

THE ENGLISH STATESMAN

The Time.--A summer day in 1918 and a summer day in 2018

FIRST ACT

_The time is a summer day in 1918. The scene is the first-line trench of the Germans--held lately by the Prussian Imperial Guard--half an hour after it had been taken by a charge of men from the Blank_th _Regiment, United States Army. There has been a mistake and the charge was not preceded by artillery preparation as usual. However, the Americans have taken the trench by the unexpectedness of their attack, and the Prussian Guard has been routed in confusion. But the German artillery has at once opened fire on the Americans, and also a German machine gun has enfiladed the trench. Ninety-nine Americans have been killed in the trench. One is alive, but dying. He speaks, being part of the time delirious._

_The Boy_. Why can't I stand? What--is it? I'm wounded. The sand-bags roll when I try--to hold to them. I'm--badly wounded. (_Sinks down.

Silence._) How still it is! We--we took the trench. Glory be! We took it! (_Shouts weakly as he lies in the trench._) (_Sits up and stares, shading his eyes_.) It's horrid still. Why--they're here! Jack--you!

What makes you--lie there? You beggar--oh, my G.o.d! They're dead.

Jack Arnold, and Martin and--Cram and Bennett and Emmet and--Dragamore--Oh--G.o.d, G.o.d! All the boys! Good American boys. The whole blamed bunch--dead in a ditch. Only me. Dying, in a ditch filled with dead men. What's the sense? (_Silence_.) This d.a.m.ned silly war.

This devilish--killing. When we ought to be home, doing man's work--and play. Getting some tennis, maybe, this hot afternoon; coming in sweaty and dirty--and happy--to a tub--and dinner--with mother. (_Groans_.) It begins to hurt--oh, it hurts confoundedly. (_Becomes delirious_.) Canoeing on the river. With little Jim. See that trout jump, Jimmie?

Cast now. Under the log at the edge of the trees. That's it! Good--oh!

(_Groans_.) It hurts--badly. Why, how can I stand it? How can anybody?

I'm badly wounded. Jimmie--tell mother. Oh--good boy--you've hooked him.

Now play him; lead him away from the lily-pads. (_Groans_.) Oh, mother!

Won't you come? I'm wounded. You never failed me before. I need you--if I die. You went away down--to the gate of life, to bring me inside.

Now--it's the gate of death--you won't fail? You'll bring me through to that other life? You and I, mother--and I won't be scared. You're the first--and the last. (_Puts out his arm searching and folds a hand, still warm, of a dead soldier_.) Ah--mother, my dear. I knew--you'd come. Your hand is warm--comforting. You always--are there when I need you. All my life. Things are getting--hazy. (_He laughs_.) When I was a kid and came down in an elevator--I was all right, I didn't mind the drop if I might hang on to your hand. Remember? (_Pats dead soldier's hand, then clutches it again tightly_.) You come with me when I go across and let me--hang on--to your hand. And I won't be scared.

(_Silence_.) This d.a.m.ned--d.a.m.ned--silly war! All the good American boys.

We charged the Fritzes. How they ran! But--there was a mistake. No artillery preparation. There ought to be crosses and medals going for that charge, for the boys--(_Laughs_.) Why, they're all dead. And me--I'm dying, in a ditch. Twenty years old. Done out of sixty years by--by the silly war. What's it for? Mother, what's it about? I'm ill a bit. I can't think what good it is. Slaughtering boys--all the nations'

boys--honest, hard-working boys mostly. Junk. Fine chaps an hour ago.

What's the good? I'm dying--for the flag. But--what's the good? It'll go on--wars. Again. Peace sometimes, but nothing gained. And all of us--dead. Cheated out of our lives. Wouldn't the world have done as well if this long ditch of good fellows had been let live? Mother?

_The Boy's Dream of His Mother_. (_Seems to speak_.) My very dearest--no. It takes this great burnt-offering to free the world. The world will be free. This is the crisis of humanity; you are bending the lever that lifts the race. Be glad, dearest life of the world, to be part of that glory. Think back to your school-days, to a sentence you learned. Lincoln spoke it. "These dead shall not have died in vain, and government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth."

_The Boy_. (_Whispers_.) I remember. It's good. "Shall not have died in vain"--"The people--shall not perish"--where's your hand, mother? It's taps for me. The lights are going out. Come with me--mother. (_Dies_.)

SECOND ACT

_The scene it the same trench one hundred years later, in the year 2018.

It is ten o'clock of a summer morning. Two French children have come to the trench to pick flowers. The little girl of seven is gentle and soft-hearted; her older brother is a man of nearly ten years, and feels his patriotism and his responsibilities_.

_Angelique_. (_The little French girl_.) Here's where they grow, Jean-B'tiste.

_Jean-Baptiste_. (_The little French boy_.) I know. They bloom bigger blooms in the American ditch.

_Angelique_. (_Climbs into the ditch and picks flowers busily_.) Why do people call it the 'Merican ditch, Jean-B'tiste? What's 'Merican?