Slowly at first, and with increasing momentum, the war was pushed up out of the trenches and the Germans retreated. The summer that filled the windows of American homes with gold stars passed. Hugo worked like a slave out beyond the front trenches, scouting, spying, destroying, salvaging, bending his heart and shoulders to a task that had long since become an acid routine. September. October. November. The end of that holocaust was very near.
Then there came a day warmer than the rest and less rainy. Hugo was riding toward the lines on a camion. He rode as much as possible now. He had not slept for two days. His eyes were red and twitching. He felt tired—tired as if his fatigue were the beginning of death—tired so that nothing counted or mattered—tired of killing, of hating, of suffering—tired even of an ideal that had tarnished through long weathering. The camion was steel and it rattled and bumped as it moved over the road. Hugo lay flat in it, trying to close his eyes.
After a time, moving between the stumps of a row of poplars, they came abreast of a regiment returning from the battle. They walked slowly and dazedly. Each individual was still amazed at being alive after the things he had witnessed. Hugo raised himself and looked at them. The same expression had often been on the faces of the French. The long line of the regiment ended. Then there was an empty place on the road, and the speed of the truck increased.
Finally it stopped with a sharp jar, and the driver shouted that he could go no farther. Hugo clambered to the ground. He estimated that the battery toward which he was travelling was a mile farther. He began to walk. There was none of the former lunge and stride in his steps. He trudged, rather, his head bent forward. A little file of men approached him, and, even at a distance, he did not need a second glance to identify them. Walking wounded.
By ones and twos they began to pass him. He paid scant attention. Their field dressings were stained with the blood that their progress cost. They cursed and muttered. Someone had given them cigarettes, and a dozen wisps of smoke rose from each group. It was not until he reached the end of the straggling line that he looked up. Then he saw one man whose arms were both under bandage walking with another whose eyes were covered and whose hand, resting on his companion’s shoulder, guided his stumbling feet.
Hugo viewed them as they came on and presently heard their conversation. “Christ, it hurts,” one of them said.
“The devil with hurting, boy,” the blinded man answered. “So do I, for that matter. I feel like there was a hot poker in my brains.”
“Want another butt?”
“No, thanks. Makes me kind of sick to drag on them. Wish I had a drink, though.”
“Who doesn’t?”
Hugo heard his voice. “Hey, you guys,” it said. “Here’s some water. And a shot of cognac, too.”
The first man stopped and the blind man ran into him, bumping his head. He gasped with pain, but his lips smiled. “Damn nice of you, whoever you are.”
They took the canteen and swallowed. “Go on,” Hugo said, and permitted himself a small lie. “I can get more in a couple of hours.” He produced his flask. “And finish off on a shot of this.”
He held the containers for the armless man and handed them to the other. Their clothes were ragged and stained. Their shoes were in pieces. Sweat had soaked under the blind man’s armpits and stained his tunic. As Hugo watched him swallow thirstily, he started. The chin and the hair were familiar. His mind spun. He knew the voice, although its tenor was sadly changed.
“Good God,” he said involuntarily, “it’s Lefty!”
Lefty stiffened. “Who are you?”
“Hugo Danner.”
“Hugo Danner?” The tortured brain reflected.
“Hugo! Good old Hugo! What, in the name of Jesus, are you doing here?”
“Same thing you are.”
An odd silence fell. The man with the shattered arms broke it. “Know this fellow?”
“Do I know him! Gee! He was at college with me. One of my buddies. Gosh!” His hand reached out. “Put it there, Hugo.”
They shook hands. “Got it bad, Lefty?”
The bound head shook. “Not so bad. I guess—I kind of feel that I won’t be able to see much any more. Eyes all washed out. Got mustard gas in ’em. But I’ll be all right, you know. A little thing like that’s nothing. Glad to be alive. Still have my sex appeal, anyhow. Still got the old appetite. But—listen—what happened to you? Why in hell did you quit? Woodman nearly went crazy looking for you.”
“Oh—” Hugo’s thoughts went back a distance that seemed infinite, into another epoch and another world—“oh, I just couldn’t stick it. Say, you guys, wait a minute.” He turned. His camion-driver was lingering in the distance. “Wait here.” He rushed back. The armless man whistled.
“God in heaven! Your friend there can sure cover the ground.”
“Yeah,” Lefty said absently. “He always could.”
In a moment Hugo returned. “I got it all fixed up for you two to ride in. No limousine, but it’ll carry you.”
Lefty’s lip trembled. “Gee—Jesus Christ—” he amended stubbornly; “that’s decent. I don’t feel so dusty today. Damn it, if I had any eyes, I guess I’d cry. Must be the cognac.”
“Nothing at all, Lefty old kid. Here, I’ll give you a hand.” He took Lefty’s arm over his shoulder, encircled him with his own, and carried him rapidly over the broken road.
“Still got the old fight,” Lefty murmured as he felt himself rushed forward.
“Still.”
“Been in this mess long?”
“Since the beginning.”
“I should have thought of that. I often wondered what became of you. Iris used to wonder, too.”
“How is she?”
“All
