And it all went to John’s head a little; but he remembered, even so, that war had been a dark and sightless butchery, and that German soldiers, hungry for cigarettes and peace, were human beings much like himself. He was sick of war and he wanted quiet and forgetfulness. He was a little terrified by the sadistic ardor of these homeland patriots who had never seen horror in young faces or a bayonet in the belly of a man. “We licked them all right!” cried a neighbor. “Hey, John, didn’t we whack it to them?” And the man looked at John and burst with happy, victorious laughter. “The Huns learned something when the Yanks got over there,” said another. “By God, don’t tell me they didn’t!” “How was it over there?” asked a third. “A lot of fun, wasn’t it, now? Hey, John, you lucky devil!” And to all this, John’s answer was a pitying shrug and a wan smile.
His smile became almost ghastly as he listened to the principal speaker. The man shouted in furious rhetoric and aroused the great audience to wild and prolonged applause. “We have with us today one of the mightiest heroes in that great struggle to make all nations and all peoples the guardians of peace: a native son, one of our own boys. We have gathered here to honor his name and to write it high among the selfless knights who march under the flags of war to make the world safe for the mothers of men! In profound humility we are gathered to pay homage to this soldier and patriot, this son of the Idaho mountains and valleys, who captured, single-handed, the machine-gun nest of the enemy, and marched his foes, beaten and vanquished, down the soil of France where the name of the great Lafayette still rings like a bell in the hearts of civilized nations!”
And when, after seven speeches and such applause as he had never dreamed of, John Benton was called to the flag-draped stand to say a few words to his friends and neighbors, he went with a sinking heart. He looked at ten thousand faces, so hushed and listening that he could hear his own breath; and for so long a moment he was speechless, staring at the throng, that a voice from far out yelled: “Atta boy, John! Tell us how you licked the Huns!” John cleared his voice and a man yelled: “Louder!” and another shouted: “Atta boy, John!” “Friends and neighbors,” said John at last, “I am grateful for this welcome.” A hand clapped and then the great throng roared with applause that made the rostrum tremble. A thousand automobile horns picked up the greeting and rolled it in thunderous volume, and for five minutes John waited, with the tremendous welcome like madness in his ears. “I appreciate your kindness,” said John, when silence fell again, “and all that you have done for me. But war, my friends, is not what you seem to think it is.” He paused and licked his dry lips and the audience waited. When he spoke again, those sitting close by were startled by his vehemence. “War, my friends, is murder. We soldiers learned that the German soldiers were not our enemy. Maybe it was a good war, fought in a good cause, and maybe it was not. I don’t know. All I know is that I’m sick of war and I won’t ever fight in another war and now I want peace and I want to forget. And—well, I guess that’s about all I have to say.”
There was no applause now. There was only stunned silence and then a low murmur that was like that of rage, gentle and baffled. Private John Benton had spoken simply from his heart, little suspecting that his words were to lay waste to his life.
John Benton, son of uneducated farmers, was a senior in high school when English propaganda drew his country into war. He was a shy and neurotic young man, deeply ashamed of his social background and his illiterate relatives. He was among the first to enlist. He went not as a patriot but as one without social or cultural anchor and without friends, who saw in war an opportunity to prove his courage and his worth. Nobody in his home town had ever spoken to him, except one barber and the neighboring farmers whom he met on the streets. And now he was to be a policeman or a night watchman or assistant to the sheriff; he was called by his first name; he was invited into the best homes. And in these first days he was very happy and loved his townsfolk and began to fancy himself as a man of national importance. But after his brief reply to the great welcome there had been a sudden and drastic change. When he met the mayor now or any of the other plump and prosperous men who had made his homecoming a memorable day, he was acknowledged with a curt nod or not at all. He got no job of any kind and he wandered up and down the streets or sat in pool halls watching the poker chips, feeling a little vengeful and deeply unhappy, and wondering why he had become only John Benton of the Benton farm on Mill Creek.
It was Bill Hawkworth who gave him an idea. Bill was a lean man with shrewd and cynical eyes and a tubercular cough. He worked in a pool hall with a cigarette hanging from his white mouth and a fixed and changeless contempt in his pale eyes. He sat by John one day and looked at him with leering pity.
“What’s the matter, buddy? Ain’t they treatun you right any more?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said John, looking at Bill’s wet dead cigarette.
“Oh, you know, all right. The mayor,” said Bill, and jerked his sallow head toward city hall. “All them fat guys, buddy.” He smiled. His upper lip curled and the hair of his ragged mustache fell like a hedge across his yellow teeth. “You fanned out quick, didn’t you? Well, buddy, do you know why?”
John turned a little angrily and looked at the lidless cynicism of Bill’s eyes. “No,” he said.