Part 16 (2/2)

”There was once a Spanish farmer,” said General Bullard, ”who lived in a small house in the country with his pious wife. One day he came rus.h.i.+ng out of the house with a valise in his hand and his good wife stopped him and asked, 'Where are you going?' 'I'm going to Seville,' said the farmer bustling right past her. 'You mean G.o.d willing,' suggested his pious wife. 'No,' replied the farmer, 'I just mean that I'm going.'

”The Lord was angered by this impiety and He promptly changed the farmer into a frog. His wife could tell that it was her husband all right because he was bigger than any of the other frogs and more noisy. She went to the edge of the pond every day and prayed that her husband might be forgiven. And one morning--it was the first day of the second year--the big frog suddenly began to swell and get bigger and bigger until he wasn't a frog any more, but a man. And he hopped out of the pond and stood on the bank beside his wife. Without stopping to kiss her or thank her or anything he ran straight into the house and came out with a valise in his hand.

”'Where are you going?' his wife asked in terror.

”'To Seville,' he said.

”She wrung her hands. 'You mean G.o.d willing,' she cried.

”'No,' thundered the farmer, 'to Seville or back to the frog pond!'”

In the main, however, American officers and soldiers were not very successful in expressing their feelings and ideals in regard to the war.

One of the Y. M. C. A. huts carried on an anonymous symposium on the subject ”Why I joined the army.” Only a few of the answers came from the heart. Most of the rest were of two types. One sort was sw.a.n.king and swaggering, in which the writer unconsciously melodramatized himself, and the other was cynical, in which the writer betrayed the fact that he was afraid of being melodramatic. Thus there was one man who answered, ”To fight for my country, the good old United States, the land of the free and the starry flag that I love so well.” ”Because I was crazy,”

wrote another and it is probable that neither reason really represented the exact feeling of the man in question.

Some were distinctly utilitarian such as that of the soldier who wrote ”To improve my mind by visiting the famous churches and art galleries of the old world.” There was also a simplicity and directness in ”to put Malden on the map.” But the two which seemed to be the truest of all were, ”Because they said I wasn't game and I am too” and ”Because she'll be sorry when she sees my name in the list of the fellows that got killed.”

For a time I was all muddled up about the American reaction to the war.

Sometimes we seemed helplessly provincial and then along would come some glorious unhelpless a.s.sertiveness. This would probably be in something to do with plumbing or doctoring. Even our friends in Europe are inclined to put us down as materialists. They think we love money more than anything else in the world. I don't believe this is true. I think we use money only as a symbol and that even if we don't express them, or if we express them badly, the American who fights has not forgotten to pack his ideals. A young American officer brought that home to me one day in Paris. He was a doctor from a thriving factory town upstate.

”You know,” he began, ”this war is costing me thousands of dollars. I was getting along great back home. A lot of factories had me for their doctor. My practice was worth $15,000 a year. It was all paid up, too, you know, workman's compensation stuff. I'll bet it won't be worth a nickel when I get back.”

He sat and drummed on the table and looked out on the street and a couple of Portuguese went by in their slate gray uniforms and then some Russians, with their marvelous tunics, which Bakst might have designed; there were French aviators in black and red, and rollicking Australians, an Italian, looking glum, and a Roumanian with a girl on his arm.

”Did you ever read 'Ivanhoe'?” said the man with the $15,000 practice, fiercely and suddenly.

I nodded.

”Well,” he said, ”when I was a boy I read that book five times. I thought it was the greatest book in the world, and I guess it is, and all this reminds me of 'Ivanhoe.'”

”Of 'Ivanhoe'?” I said.

”Yes, you know, all this,” and he made an expansive gesture, ”Verdun, and Joffre, and 'they shall not pa.s.s,' and Napoleon's tomb, and war bread, and all the men with medals and everything. Great stuff!

There'll never be anything like it in the world again. I tell you it's better than 'Ivanhoe.' Everything's happening and I'm in it. I'm in a little of it, anyway. And if I have a chance to get in something big I don't care what happens. No, sir, if I could just help to give the old Boche a good wallop I wouldn't care if I never got back. Why, I wouldn't miss this for ----” His eyes were sparkling with excitement now and he was straining for adequate expression. He brought his fist down on the table until the gla.s.ses rattled. ”I wouldn't miss this for $50,000 cash,” he said.

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