“I know. And Helen's always . . . But there, Mother, don't you worry about Helen Kendall. I've known her since she was born, pretty nigh, and I tell you she's all RIGHT.”
Fosdick, in his letter, had asked for particulars concerning Albert's death. Those particulars were slow in coming. Captain Zelotes wrote at once to the War Department, but received little satisfaction. The Department would inform him as soon as it obtained the information. The name of Sergeant Albert Speranza had been cabled as one of a list of fatalities, that was all.
“And to think,” as Rachel Ellis put it, “that we never knew that he'd been made a sergeant until after he was gone. He never had time to write it, I expect likely, poor boy.”
The first bit of additional information was furnished by the press. A correspondent of one of the Boston dailies sent a brief dispatch to his paper describing the fighting at a certain point on the Allied front. A small detachment of American troops had taken part, with the French, in an attack on a village held by the enemy. The enthusiastic reporter declared it to be one of the smartest little actions in which our soldiers had so far taken part and was eloquent concerning the bravery and dash of his fellow countrymen. “They proved themselves,” he went on, “and French officers with whom I have talked are enthusiastic. Our losses, considering the number engaged, are said to be heavy. Among those reported as killed is Sergeant Albert Speranza, a Massachusetts boy whom American readers will remember as a writer of poetry and magazine fiction. Sergeant Speranza is said to have led his company in the capture of the village and to have acted with distinguished bravery.” The editor of the Boston paper who first read this dispatch turned to his associate at the next desk.
“Speranza? . . . Speranza?” he said aloud. “Say, Jim, wasn't it Albert Speranza who wrote that corking poem we published after the Lusitania was sunk?”
Jim looked up. “Yes,” he said. “He has written a lot of pretty good stuff since, too. Why?”
“He's just been killed in action over there, so Conway says in this dispatch.”
“So? . . . Humph! . . . Any particulars?”
“Not yet. 'Distinguished bravery,' according to Conway. Couldn't we have something done in the way of a Sunday special? He was a Massachusetts fellow.”
“We might. We haven't a photograph, have we? If we haven't, perhaps we can get one.”