And Madame Simone, who brought fresh black coffee and little cakes for those who could eat them, trembled with the gladness of ministering to the boys who were fighting with hers for France. “I had almost ceased to pray when the Americans came, but now—ah, ma’m’selle, now there is hope again in this withered breast. I even dream now of mon p’tit—the youngest of them all. I feel the good God is sparing him for me.”
And old Isabelle, who came to scrub the floor and clean, muttered, as she bent her willing back to the labor: “Moi, that is what I say, too. The Lord will send my Jacques home to comfort my old age.”
As Sheila listened, it epitomized for her the tragedy of the mothers of France, this antiphonal chorus of the mothers who had lost all and those who had yet one son left. To the girl’s mind there came in almost cruel contrast that chorus of Maeterlinck’s mothers raised in rapturous expectancy to the unborn; she knew she was hearing now the agonized antithesis of it. Throughout the first day it rang incessantly, until she could have hummed the haunting melody of it. Then night came. The patches of reds and greens and blues that had sifted through the stained-glass window in the chancel and played all day in grotesque patches on the white cheeks of the wounded faded alike to gray, and the nurse lit the tall wax candles on the altar that the work might go on without stopping.
The next day—and the next—passed much the same. There was no end to the wounded. Griggs fainted twice the second day, and the chief and Sheila carried the work alone for a few hours. Each of them was acutely conscious of the strain on the other and did what he and she could to ease the tension. For the girl her greatest comfort was in the scrap of paper crumpled over her breast. It told her Peter was near, coming to her soon. It seemed to transmit some of his strength and optimism. There were moments when, but for his reassurance, the girl would have doubted every normal, happy phase of life and acknowledged only the unending torture and renunciation. Sometimes the horror seemed to wrap them in like an impenetrable fog. As for the chief, it took every ounce of will and sanity to keep him going, and he wondered how the girl beside him could brave it through without a whimper.
Always about them roared the great guns like the last booming of a judgment day, and under that noise the moaning chorus of the French mothers. When the strain reached the breaking-point Sheila closed her eyes and looked for the light on the hilltop that Peter had promised would be there—and there it always was. Moreover, she could feel Peter’s vital presence and the marvelous reality of his love reaching nearer and nearer to her through the darkness. So she kept her head clear and her hands steady and forced a smile whenever the chief eyed her anxiously. She never failed a boy “going west.” To the last breath she let him see the radiating faith of her own soul that believed in the ultimate Love above everything else. Those old illuminating smiles that had won for her her nickname of Leerie never had to be forced, and they lighted the way out for many a groping soul in that little church. And the old Frenchwomen, watching above their prayers for the return of Louis or Charles or Jacques, said:
“See, for all she’s so young, she knows what the mother-heart is. That is why she feels for us. She knows how our hearts have bled.”
On the 9th of November they were still there. The division had continued its drive, but slowly, and no orders had come for the mobile unit to go forward. And then came one of those lulls and flush-backs which for the moment made one almost believe that the tide of battle had turned again—and for the enemy. With the coming of the first wounded that day came orders to evacuate the town at once.
At first the townsfolk would not believe, but as the muddy columns of the first company could be seen on the outskirts, doubt gave place to certainty, and without moan they gathered up what few belongings they could and set their faces toward what they prayed would hold French soil. Before the refugees had cleared the town, the shelling began, giving the last impelling haste to their exodus. The hospital unit stayed in the church. They got the wounded ready to be moved and waited for further orders. They came in another ten minutes; everybody was to clear out. Three ambulances from the east and a half-dozen from the west gathered up the stretcher cases, while the others piled into the supply-trucks—that is, all but the chief and Sheila. They stood in the church door with minds for anything but going. It came to them both that, as the battalions fell back, each would be bringing its wounded as far as it could. If there was a place to drop them—and care waiting until a few more ambulances could push through—many lives might be saved, and much suffering.
The chief looked down at the girl and saw what was in her mind. Linking his arm in hers, he muttered under his breath, “Still game, bless you!” And then aloud: “Miss O’Leary and I have a liking for this place. We’ll stay until the next orders.”
Griggs had climbed to the footboard of an ambulance, and he faced them with contempt. “We didn’t volunteer to sit ’round and be blown to bits. Don’t be fools, you two. Come on while you’ve got a chance.” And then, when he saw how futile were his words: “If you haven’t had enough slaughter for one while, I have. Good-by.”