“But surely there must be someone somewhere in this world to mourn for a man who would do a thing like that!” argued the General. “Why, he went out there to get us, Sergeant!”
“I’ll miss him,” I managed to say, my lips trembling.
“So will we all, Sergeant.... I’m sorry ... very sorry!” And he walked away from me. I knew what he meant: it was his curiosity that took us up there, that cost us Ben’s life. I knew what he meant, and I knew he meant it when he said he was sorry. I knew by the way he talked and acted that he was really damned sorry. That’s what made it worse: a man like the General feeling that he was responsible for a fellow’s death! If it were some officer you could swear at and hate for it, you could get rid of your pent-up feelings by swearing at him and hating him. But, God—you couldn’t hate a man like the General.... Ben wasn’t here—that’s all there was to it—and nobody was to blame for a thing like that. All you could do was feel terrible and keep it to yourself.
After a while, when I had calmed down a little, I went in search of my brother and found him resting comfortably in an adjoining shed. He was very weak and couldn’t talk much. He had lost a lot of blood, but the wound was only a leg wound and would heal all right in time. I asked him how he happened to be out there and learned that he had been on his way back to the Evacuation Hospital to get medical supplies for the aid station, was forced to abandon the road and his motorcycle, got lost in the darkness and walked into a piece of shrapnel.
I told him about Ben and that the General might get a medal for him. “Good!” he exclaimed weakly. “He was a brick. But you’d never take him for a hero.”
“I guess heroes are born, not made,” I said. “They only show up by accident, when heroism is least expected of them or anyone else.”
I couldn’t talk to him any more. I told him to get in touch with me after he landed in a base hospital. He promised he would. I went outside again; Esky and I sat there watching the fireworks.... After a while they ceased.... Ambulances appeared.... The General called me and we piled into a car.... And all I could hear was that “Sacré nom de nom de nom ... de nom de nom de nom de nom....” Every sound, every noise, every movement, sang it over and over as if all the things about me were determined to imprint it indelibly upon my consciousness and my memory.
Perhaps it was lucky for us that we got out that night, for the next morning at 5:30 the American and French artillery began to lay down a barrage to cover the advance of troops all along the line. The Germans counterattacked in spots to cover their retreat. The battle was on to what looked like the end, for two days had seen the steady retreat of the Germans and the capture of enormous quantities of men and supplies.
We got our car back, with a new wheel, and a new driver. We stopped at St. Mihiel and then at Bar-le-Duc. Next day we’d go on to Toul.
I could hardly think. My brain was in a dizzy whirl. I wished my Captain were there. I wanted so much to talk to someone—anyone that could understand.... I missed Ben so damned much. I didn’t know anything about death. What is it? Can it be that a man dies and that is the end of him? I didn’t believe it. There is such a thing as immortality. Ben was dead, but he lived on in my memory, he’d never be really dead to me. I even caught myself looking around sometimes, expecting to see him standing there at my shoulder, swearing his beautiful profanity, dreaming of unconquered women and unvisited cafés, offering to give you the shirt from his back if you needed it. A real honest-to-God man like that could not be gone forever: I think he’ll always be with me. The best part of him will always live in my memory: and if the best part of you means your soul, then it’s true that the soul never dies.