The daily worker. [volume] (Chicago, Ill.) 1924-1958, 1926-02-06
e.:
BY Henry George Weiss.

Think of a railroad wreck, the wake of a Kan
sas cyclone the back-roads of rural county
after heavy down-pour of rain, the Internal
din of pneumatic rivetting machines in a ship
building yard. Think of the feel of wet clothes,
oozy slime, numb fingers, chattering teeth,
swollen feet. And then distribute all these
things along three hundred miles of rotting
garbage; multiply them by million, and the
more cheerful details of the picture l am trying
to present are yours.
Just back from forty days straight in the
trenches, Lieutenant Armont lounged in his
squalid quarters and dreamed of Hilda-Hilda
the little German maid, blue-eyed and rope
haired; Hilda, as straight and as fearless as a
boy; Hilda, who had kissed him one night in
the shade of linden tree and pledged him her
troth
He closed his eyes and saw the crooked
streets of the quaint LOrrainean town; the low
stoop where he had so often sat with her; the
feeble old matchmaker, her father, who had
served with the Prussian army in II, and gar
rulously told of licking the French, until his
Armont's-nerves were on edge.
The cigarette burned unheeded until it
scorched his lips, and he threw it away with
curse.
God! how happy he had been the day he left
for Paris. She had seen him off at the station
and kissed him au reVoir. Not goodbye, only
au revoir. They were to be married on his re-
turn. His return! He groaned aloud He had
never returned. An archduke had died in Ser
bia; a sword had ratified in Prussia bear had
growled in the domain Of the car, and the day
that was to grace his nuptials found him en-
trenched in front of Paris with million other
men, his immediate world blotted out with the
hdeous figure Of war
year had passed since then; year in
which he had gone thru thousand hells
year that had brought in its flight not one word
Of his sweetheart
damn war; damn war! How many times
had he damned war? And wept and raved.
But that was at first Now he had schooed
himself to endure Only an undercurrent Of
dragging hopelessness sucked ever at his feet
and made the coarse pleasures obtainable even
within this shadow of death and madness pow
erless to lift him out of its grip.
He laughed at fellow officers crude jest
and lit another cigarette. The rain was seep-
ing thru the sagging roof and pool of water
lay underfoot Inwardy he was crying Hilda
Hilda.
The crazy door swung open with bang and
an orderly entered. Stiff as ramrod he sal
uted.
Colonel MS compliments, and would Lieu
tenant Armont report at headquarters at
once?"
Lieutenant Armont would, and did. Wrapped
in his greatcoat he plowed thru the rain and
muck, cursing at every step. The colonel
greeted him formally.
Lieutenant, you will arrange to have q
squad Of your men prepare a grave in the
waste to- the south of the main billets, and
there await the arrival of Captain X with a
prisoner, spy, who will be executed in the
usual manner"
Lieutenant Armont saluted and retired.
spy" 90. to be shot Poor devil! He or
dered out his squad and gloomily smoked
cigarette as the wet sod was turned God he
hated the job. Ten, fifteen minutes passed
The men finished the grave. He glanced at his
wrist watch. Three fifty-fve. Dark as hades
Slowly, persistently the drizzle fell There was
the rattle of accoutrement, a sharp challenge
then the captain and his party doomed ghostly
in the mist. M
The captain mumbled thru the reading of the
charge. The prisoner said never word. His
head was bowed, and the greatcoat swathing
him trailed the ground. Against the stonewall
of a basement ruin they stood him. lighted