on—­to your hand.  And I won’t be scared. (Silence.) This damned—­damned—­silly war!  All the good American boys.  We charged the Fritzes.  How they ran!  But—­there was a mistake.  No artillery preparation.  There ought to be crosses and medals going for that charge, for the boys—­(Laughs.) Why, they’re all dead.  And me—­I’m dying, in a ditch.  Twenty years old.  Done out of sixty years by—­by the silly war.  What’s it for?  Mother, what’s it about?  I’m ill a bit.  I can’t think what good it is.  Slaughtering boys—­all the nations’ boys—­honest, hard-working boys mostly.  Junk.  Fine chaps an hour ago.  What’s the good?  I’m dying—­for the flag.  But—­what’s the good?  It’ll go on—­wars.  Again.  Peace sometimes, but nothing gained.  And all of us—­dead.  Cheated out of our lives.  Wouldn’t the world have done as well if this long ditch of good fellows had been let live?  Mother?

The Boy’s Dream of His Mother. (Seems to speak.) My very dearest—­no.  It takes this great burnt-offering to free the world.  The world will be free.  This is the crisis of humanity; you are bending the lever that lifts the race.  Be glad, dearest life of the world, to be part of that glory.  Think back to your school-days, to a sentence you learned.  Lincoln spoke it.  “These dead shall not have died in vain, and government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”

The Boy. (Whispers.) I remember.  It’s good.  “Shall not have died in vain”—­“The people—­shall not perish”—­where’s your hand, mother?  It’s taps for me.  The lights are going out.  Come with me—­mother. (Dies.)

SECOND ACT

The scene it the same trench one hundred years later, in the year 2018.  It is ten o’clock of a summer morning.  Two French children have come to the trench to pick flowers.  The little girl of seven is gentle and soft-hearted; her older brother is a man of nearly ten years, and feels his patriotism and his responsibilities.

Angelique. (The little French girl.) Here’s where they grow, Jean-B’tiste.

Jean-Baptiste. (The little French boy.) I know.  They bloom bigger blooms in the American ditch.

Angelique. (Climbs into the ditch and picks flowers busily.) Why do people call it the ’Merican ditch, Jean-B’tiste?  What’s ’Merican?

Jean-Baptiste. (Ripples laughter.) One’s little sister doesn’t know much!  Never mind.  One is so young—­three years younger than I am.  I’m ten, you know.

Angelique.  Tiens, Jean-B’tiste.  Not ten till next month.

Jean-Baptiste.  Oh, but—­but—­next month!

Angelique.  What’s ’Merican?

Jean-Baptiste.  Droll p’tite.  Why, everybody in all France knows that name.  Of American.

Angelique. (Unashamed.) Do they?  What is it?