The daily banner. (Cambridge, Md.) 1897-2008, 1918-01-25

1By Dana Burnett Copyright. 1918.
Paris, Jan. 3. tBy post. 1.-The
General will see you now said the
orderly.
l went through the narrow hotel
corridor into a room grown solemn
with the presence of authority
big, broad shoulderede man in uni
form was sitting before a desk OF
consummate neatness. The surface
of that desk was as smooth as pa
rade ground. The papers that COW
cred it were arranged as precisely as
pawns upon a chessboard.
The man was General Pershing,
Commander-in-Chie of the Amerl-
can Evolutionary forces in France.
Erect, square-jawed with keen
eyes and a mouth firmly indicated
beneath a close-clipped mustache, he
sat there like master chess player
whose every faculty was concentrat-
ed upon the game. His hands lay
upon the table as do the hands of
one who contemplates his next move.
We talked, but all the time l was
conscious of being at the centre OF
tremendous silent enterprise-an en-
terprise in which words do not count,
in which only deeds count.
In far off America half a million
young men-clerks, bookkeepers,
stock brokers, lawyers, poets, stu
dents, day laborers, painters, must
clans, bartenders, stage hands, buns,
bankers, teachers and tradesmen-
are tearing their lives up by the
roots to make an army against mill
tarism. Supreme irony. That earth
should have no better argument for
one sword than another sword. Yet
so it is.
All over the country the young
men are saying goodbye, farewell,
and forget US not. Farewell-and
God keep our loves till we come safe
ly home again. Farewell-and God
grant that the world shall never hear
the like of our trampling feet again.
All through the land they are
marching in citizens drab, in every
day boots and individualistic head
gear. Tomorrow, in camps where
hardship and discomfort must pay
for ill-conceived haste, they will be
moulded to a common measure, drill
ed and drilled again, until the very
current of their blood runs as one
stream; until their very heart beats
fall into the endless marching rhy-
thin: One-twoi One-two!
The chess player in Paris moves
one of those papers on his desk.
Out of the mouth of harbor
ringed with tall spires, where white
steam pennants float innumerably
against the blue sky, wnere stout
tugs make progress against rushing
waters and the rusty freighterS lie
in mute gratitude for their escape
from the deep, an oddly daubed and
Enthusiastically painted ship steams
slowly to sea.
Men crowd her decks, men in uni
forms, who look their last upon ia
miliar sho1e
Now fades the shore; the sea
spreads immeasurable ahead of us.
We come upon a strange company of
ships streaked and daubed as we
are; filled and pregnant as we are.
A gray cruiser, gaunt shepherds dog
of the flock, worries us into line. A
wild futter of flags at the mastheads
and the fleet is away.
1t is night now-clear night OF
stars-and great moon walks upon
the sea. The water is a furrowed
field of gold, over which play bright
flames of phosphorus. Each ship,
lunging with smothered portfolios
through the lazy swell, is accom-
panied by thousand darling fires
as though a thousand silver fishes
were playing alongside. And we had
such need for darkness.
On every ship armed guards are
pacing Sleepless young officers are
nosing about among the life RATS to
see whether all is in readiness. The
gold turns to the gray of dawn.
Black smudges Of smoke appear up
on the horizon. The news thrills
through the ship. Now We can see
the lean bulls come racing out of the
crimson east The destroyers. Thank
God.
The keen-eyed chess player in
Paris moves forward his line of
pawns, develops his opening bandit.
Another night, not of stars. From
the black silence of a village batter
ed long since into CHASTITY ruin-Oh,
unspeakable tragedy of the dead vii
lagos of France!-goes long line of
helmeted figures; not bank clerks
and poets and tradesmen now, but
y
Force; soldiers moving up to the
trenches.
Qiuet there No singing. Worse
yet-no smoking. What is a man to
do to keep his spirit up?
Farewell-and God save our loves
though we come never home again.
1t begins to rain; the walls of the
communication trench are Shiny to
the touch; the blackboard has grown
slippery underfoot. Into the front
line at last, .peering over the parapet
into nerve racking darkness. Why
are we here? And what is it all for?
Sudden thunder of guns; big guns,
little guns, vicious red-tongued guns
that spit death across the pock-mar-