|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 33
He lunched with a man at a club and after that took his way to the
building on Broadway where were the recruiting headquarters. He had told
her that he was going to enlist. As he walked he stared at the people in
the streets as a man might stare going to his execution. These people
went about their affairs, he considered, as if he--who was about to
die--did not, in passing their friendly commonplace, salute them. He did
salute them. Out of his troubled soul he sent a silent greeting to each
ordinary American hurrying along, each standing to him for pleasant and
peaceful America, America of all his days up to now. Was he to toss away
this comfortable comradeship, his life to be, everything he cared for on
earth, to go into hell, and likely never come back? Why? Why must he?
There seemed to be plenty who wanted to fight--why not let them? It was
the old slacker's argument; the man was ashamed as he caught himself
using it; he had the grace to see its selfishness and cowardice. Yet his
soul was in revolt as he drove his body to the recruiting office, and
the thoughts that filled him were not of the joy of giving but of the
pain of giving up. With that he stood on the steps of the building and
here was Charlie Thurston hurrying by on the sidewalk.
"Hello, Jim! Going in to enlist? So long till you come back with one leg
and an eye out."
It was Thurston's idea of a joke. He would have been startled if he had
known into what a trembling balance his sledge-hummer wit cast its
unlucky weight. The balance quivered at the blow, shook back and forth
an instant and fell heavily. Jim Barlow wheeled, sprang down the stone
steps and bolted up the street, panting as one who has escaped a wild
beast. Thurston had said it. That was what was due to happen. It was now
three o'clock; Barlow fled up State Street to the big hotel and took a
room and locked his door and threw himself on the bed. What was he to
do? After weeks of hesitation he had come to the decision that he would
offer himself to his country. He saw--none plainer--the reasons why it
was fit and right so to do. Other men were giving up homes and careers
and the whole bright and easy side of life--why not he? It was the
greatest cause to fight for in the world's history--should he not fight
for it? How, after the war, might he meet friends, his own people, his
children to come, if he alone of his sort had no honorable record to
show? Such arguments, known to all, he repeated, even aloud he repeated
them, tossing miserably about the bed in his hotel room. And his mind at
once accepted them, but that was all. His spirit failed to spring to his
mind's support with the throb of emotion which is the spark that makes
the engine go. The wheels went around over and over but the connection
was not made. The human mind is useful machinery, but it is only the
machine's master, the soul, which can use it. Over and over he got to
his feet and spoke aloud: "Now I will go." Over and over a repulsion
seized him so strongly that his knees gave way and he fell back on the
bed. If he had a mother, he thought, she might have helped, but there
was no one. Mary--but he could not risk Mary's belief in his courage.
Only a mother would have understood entirely.
With that, sick at heart, the hideous sea of counter arguments,
arguments of a slacker, surged upon him. What would it all matter a
hundred years from now? Wasn't he more useful in his place keeping up
the industries of the nation? Wasn't he a bigger asset to America as an
alive engineer, an expert in his work, than as mere cannon fodder, one
of thousands to be shot into junk in a morning's "activity"--just one of
them? Because the Germans were devils why should he let them reach over
here, away over here, and drag him out of a decent and happy life and
throw him like dirt into the horrible mess they had made, and leave him
dead or worse--mangled and useless. Then, again--there were plenty of
men mad to fight; why not let them? Through a long afternoon he fought
with the beasts, and dinner-time came and he did not notice, and at last
he rose and, telephoning first to Mary a terse message that he would not
be able to come this evening, he went out, hardly knowing what he did,
and wandered up town.
There was a humble church in a quiet street where a service flag hung,
thick with dark stars, and the congregation were passing out from a
special service for its boys who were going off to camp. The boys were
there on the steps, surrounded by people eager to touch their hands, a
little group of eight or ten with serious bright faces, and a look in
their eyes which stabbed into Barlow. One may see that look any day in
any town, meeting the erect stalwart lads in khaki who are about our
streets. It is the look of those who have made a vital sacrifice and
know the price, and whose minds are at peace. Barlow, lingering on the
corner across the way, stared hungrily. How had they got that look, that
peace? If only he might talk to one of them! Yet he knew how dumb an
animal is a boy, and how helpless these would be to give him the master
word.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|