One night, when the bombardment seemed to reach the final height of violence, when each blow shook our dugout, and the props groaned and threatened to yield—it would have been a merciless burial—our looks crossed and I read in his eyes a deep sorrow.
In spite of my natural reserve, out of respect to his deep suffering I was unable to contain myself long.
“Comrade,” I said, “I read in your looks a great sorrow.”
He seemed to come back to reality when he heard my voice!
“Fate has placed us near each other for some days. We don’t know what to-morrow may bring. Can’t I be of some use? Aid you in any way? Tell me!”
His eyes tried to smile a thanks. I saw his lips contract and then came tears, and before I could say anything he leaned his head on my shoulder and wept deeply.
It was not weakness, despair, or fear, but the unbridling of a heart shut up too long, the great gasp of a soul heavy with mental sorrows which might at last open itself, the gentle rain which brought the stifling storm of the nerves to an end.
He confided his life history to me in a few words.
He was a simple artisan of the laboring class, and his life had been full of grief and sorrow. After some years of struggles, and cares and stress together with his beloved companion, a daughter was born. But in coming into the world she took the life of her mother. And then he found himself alone in the world with this puny frail creature, born in grief and raised in sorrow.