The Washington times., 1931-11-06


out of the far distance, as II
they came up over forests and
seas, I hear words dropping
down, words that gradually
sort themselves to a meaning
and then penetrate into me.
"Uncle Karl sent the sausage"
says the voice of my mother
amid the faint roll of the
guns.
The words reach me on the
very edge of the shell hole
into which I am sliding, and
with them there appears q
snug, self-satisfied face, and
disappears. ZACH, him"-I say
sourly, and my voice sounds
as though I had o mouth full
of Wadding, weariness is swilE
ing around and about me so;
that silly" Then I fall,
fall, fall, and the shadows leap
toward me, sweep over me in
long rollers. dark and darker.
But I\do not fall asleep.
Something has gone that was
there before-that steady, light,
metallic clinking. Slowly I
grope my way back into con. !
sciousness and open my eyes.
There is my mother, pale and
Mortified, staring down at me.
Whats the matter, mother?"
I cry. jumping up in alarm.
Are you ill?"
She shakes her head. mo,
no-but to think you would
say such a thing"
I reflect. What did I say
then? All, yes, that about
Uncle Carl. Come, mother,
you mustn't be SO touchy?" I
laugh in relief. after all,
Uncle Kari is a 'profiteer, you
know, isn't he. now?"
Ill At Ease
THAT Is not what I mind
at ALL" she answers quietly,
but that you should use such
expressions"
Then I remember what
did say in. my browse and I
feel ashamed that it should
have happened before my
mother. TT just popped out
of me, mother" I explain
alphabetically. 1T takes a
while, you know, to get used
to not being at the Front any
longer Our language was a
bit rough out there, mother,
I know. Rough, but honest"
I smooth down my hair and
button my tunic. I start to
hunt for a cigarette and OBJ
serve incidentally that my
mother is still looking at me.
Her hands are trembling.
I give up my search. But,
mother!" I say in establishment,
putting my arm about her
shoulders, there's really moth
ing SO very bad in that!
Soldiers are always like that"
Eyes, yes, I know" she pro-
tests; "but you--you, too"
I laugh. Me too? Why, of
course! / am about to ex-
claim, but check myself and
remove my arm, for something
has suddenly dawned on me.
I sit down on the sofa to sort
myself out.
There she stands before me,
an old woman with an anxious.
care-worn face. Her hands are
clasped-weary, toil-worn hands
with a soft, wrinkled skin,
where the veins stand out blu
ish-hands become so for my
sake-I never thought of that
before. There is a lot I did
not think of before; 1 was too
young. But now I understand
how it is that to this withered,
little woman I am something
different from any other soldier
in the world; I am her child.
To her I have always re-
ma1ned so. even as soldier.
In the war she has seen only
a pack of wild beasts threaten
ing the life of her child. It
has never occurred to her that
this same threatened child has
been just such another wild
beast to the children of yet
other mothers.
Bloody Hands
NV gaze DROPS from her
hands to my own. In May,
II, I stabbed a Frenchman
with these hands. The blood
ran nauseatingly hot over my
fingers and in a panic Of fear
and of rags I stabbed again
and again. And when the
Frenchman, choking, clapped
his hands to the wound, I could
not stop myself. but stabbed
through his hands, too, till he
sagged down like an empty
ing tube. And afterwards I
vomited and the, whole night
through I wept. Only next
day was Adolf Bethke able to
comfort me: I had just turned
18 then. and that was the first
attack I was in.
I turn my hands over slowly.
y the big push at the begin
ming Of July, I shot three men
with these hands. They re-
NAMED the whole day long
hanging on the barbed wire.
Their limp arms would fling
upward with the blast Of the
shell explosions as if they still
threatened us, and sometimes,