Gillespie hurried forward, got the package, and ran to the middle of the ravine, calling: “Mailo, mailo, Third Platoon.”
The envelope which Harriman fondly and carefully opened was different from the other letters in the package. On it the stamp had been glued at an angle which, to many young men and women, meant “I love you.” The stationery was lavender and a reminiscent odor of sachet was on it. The writing was cramped and affectedly schoolgirlish. Harriman unfolded the sheet of lavender paper.
“Dear Carl,” it began. “You poor dear boy!! How you must be suffering over there in those horrid trenches. And how BRAVE of you to be so joking about it. But WE know how badly the conditions really are. The papers keep reporting the FRIGHTFULNESS of those Huns, and I pray each night that you won’t be taken prisoner and be treated as some of our poor boys have been treated. The other day Mrs. Wilwerscheid told mama the most AWFUL story of what the Huns were doing to our prisoner boys. Oh, Carl, it was so awful that I cannot repeat it. I ought not to even THINK of it. But we know that our Carl is too brave to let HIMSELF be taken prisoner.
“Four of your letters came to-day and it set me wondering where you are. Are you, by any chance, at Chateau Therry? They say there are a great many of our American boys there. I sent you a box two weeks ago. I wonder if you got it. I put in a helmet that I had knitted ESPECIALLY for you, and six big bars of chocolate. You must have PLENTY of cigarettes. Both Helene Mason and I have subscribed to OODLES of soldiers’ tobacco funds. You know, you pay a quarter and get a box of cigarettes and tobacco. You can write whosever name on it that you want to and it will be sent to him. So of course I made Helene write yours. I know that you used to not smoke cigarettes, but the papers say that now that all the boys over there are smoking them and of course you would be doing what the rest of the boys are. Remember, I didn’t use to like to see boys smoke. But I am willing to sacrifice a mere prejudice for so great a cause as you boys are fighting for. And then Rector Tyson, of the First M. E., said from the pulpit the other Sunday that he thought it was all right for the boys over there to smoke. He is so broad-minded!
“Carl dear, this war will never end. You have been over there so long. Almost a year, and mama keeps talking about John Ryder (he has a big farm now and is raising the food that the government most needs), and saying that Carl will never come back. Would you forgive me if I did, Carl? I mean, became Mrs. John R. Ryder? You better hurry or I will.
Your loving
Ellen.
“P.S. The papers say that we must call you Sammies now. Are you my little Sammy?”
Hope was burned to a white crisp in his intense disappointment. It left him feeling cold and as if a large hole had been burned in his side. His eyes were blinded and weak as if by a sudden glare. “Oh, damn. Oh, damn.” He crushed the letter in the palm of his hand, making it a paper wad. Feverishly he unfolded the letter, spreading out the wrinkles. Ellen danced before him, a fiend with golden hair, an angel who had a forked tongue. She didn’t care, she never cared. But she did, a voice informed him, rationalizing his experiences with her, the words she had spoken to him. She must still care. There was hope. If only he could get back, could see her, could talk to her.... But that was ridiculous. He would stay there with the platoon until he was killed, or, by a piece of luck, wounded. He looked at the combat-packs whose owners never would wear them again, at the pierced helmets and the blood-stained gas-masks. Pieces of equipment were scattered over the ground alongside the small, pitiful holes which had been dug for safety. The tall, straight trees grew thicker in the distance. Their shadows invited him. The grass acted as a continual spring-board, pushing his body forward into the thicket. On he walked, a smile, half of gladness, half of bewilderment, turning up the corners of his mouth.