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Page 2
X. Dundonald's Destroyer
THE DITCH
PERSONS
THE BOY an American soldier
THE BOY'S DREAM OF HIS MOTHER
ANG�LIQUE }
} 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 God! They're dead.
Jack Arnold, and Martin and--Cram and Bennett and Emmet
and--Dragamore--Oh--God, God! 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 damned 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 damned--damned--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?
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