Part 13 (1/2)

”But unofficially, gentlemen, quite unofficially,” says Mr. A., its head, a tall, melancholy-looking man, with a deep, bell-like voice.

Mr. B., the second member of the mission, is in direct contrast, a birdlike little man, who twitters about the room, from group to group.

”Oh! If you boys only knew how _splendid_ you are! How much we in America--You are our _first_ representatives at the front, you know.

You are the vanguard of the _millions_ who--” etc.

Miller looks at me solemnly. His eyes are saying, ”How long, O Lord, how long!”

Mr. C., the third member, is a silent man. He has keen, deep-set eyes.

”There,” we say, ”is the brain of the mission.”

Tea is served very informally. Mr. A. is restless. He has something on his mind. Presently he turns to Lieutenant Talbott.

”May I say a few words to your squadron?”

”Certainly,” says Talbott, glancing at us uneasily.

Mr. A. rises, steps behind his chair, clears his throat, and looks down the table where ten pilots,--the others are taking a const.i.tutional in the country,--caught in negligee attire by the unexpected visitors, are sitting in att.i.tudes of polite attention.

”My friends--” the deep, bell-like voice. In fancy, I hear a great s.h.i.+fting of chairs, and following the melancholy eyes with my own, over the heads of my ten fellow pilots, beyond the limits of our poor little messroom, I see a long vista of polished s.h.i.+rt fronts, a diminis.h.i.+ng track of snowy linen, s.h.i.+mmering winegla.s.ses, s.h.i.+ning silver.

”My friends, believe me when I say that this occasion is one of the proudest and happiest of my life. I am standing within sound of the guns which for three--long--years have been battering at the bulwarks of civilization. I hear them, as I utter these words, and I look into the faces of a little group of Americans who, day after day, and week after week” (increasing emphasis) ”have been facing those guns for the honor and glory of democratic inst.i.tutions” (rising inflection).

”We in America have heard them, faintly, perhaps, yet unmistakably, and now I come to tell you, in the words of that glorious old war song, 'We are coming, Father Woodrow, ONE HUN-DRED MIL-LION strong!'”

We listen through to the end, and Lieutenant Talbott, in his official capacity, begins to applaud. The rest of us join in timidly, self-consciously. I am surprised to find how awkwardly we do it. We have almost forgotten how to clap our hands! My sense of the spirit of place changes suddenly. I am in America. I am my old self there, with different thoughts, different emotions. I see everything from my old point of view. I am like a man who has forgotten his ident.i.ty. I do not recover my old, or, better, my new one, until our guests have gone.