FIRST ACT

The time is a summer day in 1918.  The scene is the first-line trench of the Germans—­held lately by the Prussian Imperial Guard—­half an hour after it had been taken by a charge of men from the Blankth Regiment, United States Army.  There has been a mistake and the charge was not preceded by artillery preparation as usual.  However, the Americans have taken the trench by the unexpectedness of their attack, and the Prussian Guard has been routed in confusion.  But the German artillery has at once opened fire on the Americans, and also a German machine gun has enfiladed the trench.  Ninety-nine Americans have been killed in the trench.  One is alive, but dying.  He speaks, being part of the time delirious.

The Boy.  Why can’t I stand?  What—­is it?  I’m wounded.  The sand-bags roll when I try—­to hold to them.  I’m—­badly wounded. (Sinks down.  Silence.) How still it is!  We—­we took the trench.  Glory be!  We took it! (Shouts weakly as he lies in the trench.) (Sits up and stares, shading his eyes.) It’s horrid still.  Why—­they’re here!  Jack—­you!  What makes you—­lie there?  You beggar—­oh, my God!  They’re dead.  Jack Arnold, and Martin and—­Cram and Bennett and Emmet and—­Dragamore—­Oh—­God, God!  All the boys!  Good American boys.  The whole blamed bunch—­dead in a ditch.  Only me.  Dying, in a ditch filled with dead men.  What’s the sense? (Silence.) This damned silly war.  This devilish—­killing.  When we ought to be home, doing man’s work—­and play.  Getting some tennis, maybe, this hot afternoon; coming in sweaty and dirty—­and happy—­to a tub—­and dinner—­with mother. (Groans.) It begins to hurt—­oh, it hurts confoundedly. (Becomes delirious.) Canoeing on the river.  With little Jim.  See that trout jump, Jimmie?  Cast now.  Under the log at the edge of the trees.  That’s it!  Good—­oh! (Groans.) It hurts—­badly.  Why, how can I stand it?  How can anybody?  I’m badly wounded.  Jimmie—­tell mother.  Oh—­good boy—­you’ve hooked him.  Now play him; lead him away from the lily-pads. (Groans.) Oh, mother!  Won’t you come?  I’m wounded.  You never failed me before.  I need you—­if I die.  You went away down—­to the gate of life, to bring me inside.  Now—­it’s the gate of death—­you won’t fail?  You’ll bring me through to that other life?  You and I, mother—­and I won’t be scared.  You’re the first—­and the last. (Puts out his arm searching and folds a hand, still warm, of a dead soldier.) Ah—­mother, my dear.  I knew—­you’d come.  Your hand is warm—­comforting.  You always—­are there when I need you.  All my life.  Things are getting—­hazy. (He laughs.) When I was a kid and came down in an elevator—­I was all right, I didn’t mind the drop if I might hang on to your hand.  Remember? (Pats dead soldier’s hand, then clutches it again tightly.) You come with me when I go across and let me—­hang