“Jane, you must be mad to suggest such a thing.”
“But I want her to know—to understand—to share—”
“That is wrong. What is there for her to understand? She is a child. Her life is not involved in the war. It lies beyond. She should be protected from this nightmare.”
“I want her with me.”
Your mother shook her head sadly. “If you want her with you, you should stay at home and look after her. You have been admirable, you have devoted yourself, but when the war is over, you will perhaps find that you have made a mistake.”
“Mistake! Would you have me stay at home while men are dying by thousands!”
She sighed gently. “Ah—well—dear—you know best, but I wonder sometimes, if you are not deluded—”
Jinny had disappeared. I found her in her bedroom, her head buried in her pillow.
“I’m a coward,” she sobbed, “a coward. I would be afraid to go.”
I took her in my arms. “My poor little lonely Jinny.” I held her a long time—a long time—comforting her, conscience-smitten, troubled, but the next day I left again for the front, following my monstrous illusion, answering the terrible call of the greatest imposture in creation. For I was wrong and your mother was right. The war was not a fine thing. It did not save the world or renew it. It left nothing fine or noble behind. It was an obscene monster. It called up from the soil of a dozen continents all the fine strong men, and devoured them, it summoned out of the heart of humanity, heroism, and it devoured that. Courage, faith, hope, self-sacrifice, all the dreams of men were poured into its jaws and disappeared. Nothing was left but broken men, and a ruined earth.