CHAPTER XXV
"MISSING"
JANUARY 1, 1918.--I came up to my room tonight, thinking I'd start theNew Year by bringing this record up to date; but when I look back on thelong five months to be filled in, the task seems hopeless. It wasThanksgiving before Mr. Sammy was able to come back to work. Since thenI've had shorter hours at the office, because they don't have so muchwork for a stenographer in the winter, but the extra time outside hasbeen taken up by one breathless chase after another. When it isn'tselling Liberty Bonds it is distributing leaflets about foodconservation and the crime of wasting. Or it's a drive for a millionmore Red Cross members or a hurry call for surgical dressings. Thenevery minute in between it's knit, knit, knit everlastingly.
Barby did not come home Christmas, and we did not keep the day forourselves. We had our hands full doing for the families of the fishermenwho were drowned last summer, and for the boys at the front and in thecamps at home. I hope Richard got his box all right, and that DoctorJohn Wynne enjoyed the one Tippy packed for him, and the round-robinletter that Miss Susan and some of the Wellfleet people sent him. Theystarted on their way before Thanksgiving.
I saw "Cousin James" a few minutes to-day. He came down to take a lookat his premises. The bungalow has been boarded up ever since last fall,when he joined the class of "a dollar a year" men, working for thegovernment. We had such a good time talking about Richard. He's sooptimistic about the war ending soon, that he left me feeling morelight-hearted than I've been for months. It will, indeed, be a happy NewYear if it brings us peace.
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WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY. Shades of Valley Forge! What a winter this is! Itwill go down in history with its wheatless and meatless days, and nowthat the fuel shortage is pinching all classes of people alike, the antas well as the grasshopper, the heatless days make the situation almosthopeless.
Tippy and I are living mostly in the kitchen now, because we are nearlyat the end of our coal supply, and the railroads are not able to bringin any more. The open wood fires make little impression on the generaliciness of the house. I am sitting up in my room to-night with furs andarctics on, and a big lamp burning to supplement the efforts of a littlecoal-oil heater. With all that it's so cold that I can see my breath. Myfingers are so numb that I can scarcely manage my pen, but I must make anote of the news which came to-day. It's about Doctor Wynne.
In January Tippy had a letter from him, a charmingly written account ofChristmas in the trenches, and a grateful acknowledgment of the box andthe letter. This morning a small package came to me, addressed in astrange hand. An English nurse sent it. Inside she wrote:
"Captain John Wynne asked me to send you the enclosed. He was in thishospital three weeks, and died last night from the effect of injuriesreceived in doing one of the bravest things the war has yet calledforth. He faced what seemed to be instant and inevitable death to avertan explosion that would have killed his Major and many men with him. Inthe attempt he was so badly wounded that it was thought he could notlive to reach the hospital. But maimed and shattered as he was, he liveduntil last night.
"He was one of the most efficient surgeons we had at the front, and oneof the best beloved. His fortitude through his time of intense sufferingwas a marvel to the whole hospital staff, accustomed as we are to nursebrave men. It really seemed as if he were sustained by some power otherthan mere human endurance, some strength of the spirit few mortalsattain.
"It was a source of regret to all who knew of his case that thedecoration awarded him did not arrive until after he lapsed intounconsciousness. But he knew he was to receive it. His Colonel told himhe was to have the highest award for valor that your country bestows. Hehad already told me what disposition to make of his effects, and when Iasked him in regard to the expected decoration he gave me your addresswhispering, 'She will know.'"
I _did_ know. It is hanging now where he knew I would put it. Thisafternoon when I came home I brought with me a little gold star to takethe place of the blue one on the service flag under his mother'spicture. And over it I hung the medal--that other star, bronze andlaurel-wreathed, with its one word "Valor," surmounted by its eagle andits bit of ribbon.
Tippy, watching me, suddenly buried her face in her apron and went outof the room, crying as I have never seen her cry before. I knew itwasn't the thought that he was gone which hurt her so keenly. It was thefact that the little token of his country's appreciation reached himtoo late. He missed the comfort of it himself, and there was no one ofhis own left to know the honor done him and to take pride in it.
I had been feeling the hurt of it myself, ever since the news came. Butit left me as I stood there, looking at the pictures in the littleantique frame. The winter sunset, streaming red across the iciclesoutside the western window, touched everything in the room with a tingeof rose. It lighted up both faces, and, as I looked at his, I whisperedthrough tears:
"What does a little guerdon matter to a soul like yours, John Wynne? Thedeed was all you cared for." And when I looked into his mother's faceand recalled what the nurse had written, I dried my eyes and smiled intoher eyes, that were looking so steadfastly out at me. I _knew_ she hadhelped him at the last. In some way her comfort had been with him, asthe hosts "were round about Elisha in the mountain."
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ST. PATRICK'S DAY. March came in like a lion, but we're comfortable now,thank goodness, in spite of the fact that the winds are still keen andthere is much ice in the harbor. The coal cars reached town at last, andthe big base-burner in the hall sends waves of delicious warmth allthrough the house. This past winter has been a nightmare of discomfortfor nearly everybody.
Babe says her experiences since 1918 set in would make the angels weep.She's been doing the housekeeping since New Year, because her mothersimply cannot adjust herself to war conditions. Mrs. Dorsey announcedthat she was born extravagant and it wasn't her nature to save, but ifBabe thought it was her duty and was willing to undertake it, she'd putup with the results no matter how harrowing. They get along pretty wellwhen Mr. Dorsey is off on his trips, but I imagine harrowing is theright word for it when he's at home. He simply won't eat cornbread, andhe swears at the mere sight of meat substitutes, such as mock turkeymade of beans and peanut butter and things.
Babe, having married into the Navy, feels that she is under specialobligation to Hooverize to the limit. She wants to end the war as soonas possible on Watson's account. In fact, she makes such a personalmatter of it that she's getting herself disliked in some parts of town,and some people seem to think she is in a way responsible for the wholething. A Portuguese woman asked Tippy the other day how long shesupposed that "Mrs. Tucker's war" was going to last. She said Babe isdown in their back yards every few days, looking into their slop-pailsand scolding something fierce if she finds the potato parings thickerthan she says they can be. Poor Babe! Between the demands of herpatriotism and the demands of her difficult parents she is almostdistracted at times.
I wish I could write down in these pages all the funny things thathappen. Never a day goes by, either at the office or the Red Crosswork-rooms, that something amusing doesn't come up. But by the time I'vetold it in one letter for Barby to pass on to Father, and in another tomake Richard laugh, I haven't the patience to write it all out againhere. The consequence is I'm afraid I've given the wrong impression ofthese last few months. One would think there have been no good times, nogood cheer. That it's been all work and grim duty. But such is not thecase. My letters will testify to that, and it's only because so muchtime and energy have gone into them that things have to be crowded intoa few brief paragraphs in this book.
Despite all the gruesomeness of war and my separation from my family, Iam so busy that I'm really and truly happy from morning till night. Ienjoy my work at the office and my work at home and all the kinds ofwar-work that come my way. It's a satisfaction merely to turn out clean,well-typed pages, but it's bliss unalloyed to know that the money
I'mgetting for doing it is going to buy bread and bullets to bring aboutthe downfall of the Kaiser.
Sometimes when old Mr. Sammy is feeling especially hopeful and there'snobody in the office but me, he begins to hum an old camp-meeting tunethat they sing at his church:
"Coming bye and bye, coming bye and bye! A better day is dawning, the morning draweth nigh."
I join in with a convincing alto, and afterwards we say what a gloriousold world this will be when that day really gets here. "When Johnnycomes marching home again, hurrah," the war won and the world made asafe place for everybody. How lovely it will be just to draw a fullbreath and settle down and _live_.
At such times it seems such a grand privilege to have even the smallestshare in bringing that victory about, that he's all but shouting when weget through talking, and I've accumulated enough enthusiasm to send methrough the next week with a whoop. Sometimes if there isn't anything todo right then in the office, I turn from the desk and look out of thewindow, with eyes that see far beyond the harbor to the happy dawningwe've been singing about.
I see Richard ... climbing the Green Stairs ... coming into the littlehome we furnished together in fancy ... the little Dream-home where I'vespent so many happy hours since. I can see the smile in his dear eyes ashe holds his arms out to me ... having earned the right to make all ourdreams come true ... having fought the good fight ... and kept the faith... that all homes may be safe and sacred everywhere the wide worldover....
When one can dream dreams like that, one can put up with "the long, longnight of waiting," knowing it will have such a heavenly ending.
APRIL 6, 1918. One year ago to-day the United States declared----
I had written only that far last Saturday night when I looked up to seeTippy standing in the door holding out the evening paper. I felt as Iheard her coming along the hall that something was the matter. Shewalked so hesitatingly. Something in her face seemed to make my heartstand still, and stopped the question I started to ask. She didn't seemto be able to speak, just spread the paper on the table in front of meand pointed to something. Her finger was shaking. The four black wordsshe pointed to seemed to leap up into my face as I read them:
"_Lieutenant Richard Moreland, Missing._"
Those four black words have been in front of my eyes ever since. Theywere in the official announcement that "Cousin James" brought down nextday. He had been notified as next of kin.
"Lieutenant Richard Moreland Missing"]
At first they seemed more bearable than if they'd said killed orseriously wounded. I didn't quite grasp the full meaning of "missing."But I do now. I heard "Cousin James" say in a low tone to Tippy, out inthe hall, something about death being more merciful than falling aliveinto the hands of the Germans. He told her some of the things they do. Iknow he's afraid that Richard has been taken prisoner.
He keeps telling me that we mustn't be down-hearted. That we must go onhoping as hard as we can that everything will turn out all right. TheWar Department is doing its best to trace him, and if he's a prisonerwe'll spare no expense and effort to get food through to him. Theyalways treat aviators with more consideration than other soldiers, and Imustn't worry. But he doesn't look one bit the way he talks. His faceis so haggard that I know he's frightened sick.
Barby is, too, or she wouldn't have come all the way home to tell me thevery same things that he did. She wants to take me back to Washingtonwith her till we have farther news. She's cabled to Father. I know theyall think it's strange that I take it so quietly, but I've felt numb anddazed ever since those four black words leaped up at me from the paper.I wish they wouldn't be so tender with me and so solicitous for mycomfort. It's exactly the way they'd act if Richard were dead. I'm glad"Cousin James" went right back. He looked at me the way Tippy does, asif she pities me so that it breaks her heart. She doesn't know what herface shows. None of them realize that their very efforts to be cheerfuland comforting show that their hopefulness is only make-believe.