Burned Bridges by Bertrand W. Sinclair (win 10 ebook reader .TXT) 📖
- Author: Bertrand W. Sinclair
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Believe I Could Fly."
"If You Can Fly Like You Drive, You'll Be The Goods," Jimmie Asserted
Cheerfully. "Tell You What, Thompson. Come On Around To The Flying Corps
Headquarters With Me. I Know A Fellow There Rather Well, And I'll
Introduce You. Not That That Will Get You Anything, Only Holmes Will
Give You A Lot Of Unofficial Information."
Thompson Rose From The Table.
"Lead Me To It," Said He. "I'm Your Man."
Getting Accepted As A Cadet In The Royal Flying Corps Was Not So Simple
A Matter As Enlisting In The Infantry. The Requirements Were Infinitely
More Rigid. The R.F.C. Took Only The Cream Of The Country's Manhood.
They Told Thompson His Age Was Against Him--And He Was Only
Twenty-Eight. It Was True. Ninety Per Cent. Of The Winged Men Were Five
Years Younger. But He Passed All Their Tests By Grace Of A Magnificent
Body That Housed An Active Brain And Steady Nerves.
All This Did Not Transpire Overnight. It Took Days. He Told No One Of
His Plans In The Meantime, No One But Tommy Ashe, Who Was A Trifle
Disappointed When Thompson Declined To Handle Tommy's Exceedingly
Chapter 20 (And The Bomb The Fuse Fired) Pg 137Profitable Motor Business. Tommy Seemed Hurt. To Make It Clear That He
Had A Vital Reason, Thompson Explained Tersely.
"I Can't Do It Because I'm Going To The Front."
"Eh? What The Devil!"
Tommy Looked All The Astonishment His Tone Expressed.
"Well, _What_ The Devil?" Thompson Returned Tartly. "Is There Anything
Strange About That? A Good Many Men Have Gone. A Good Many More Will
Have To Go Before This Thing Is Settled. Why Not?"
"Oh, If A Man Feels That He _Should_," Tommy Began. He Seemed At A Loss
For Words, And Ended Lamely: "There's Plenty Of Cannon-Fodder In The
Country Without Men Of Your Caliber Wasting Themselves In The Trenches.
You Haven't The Military Training Nor The Pull To Get A Commission."
Thompson's Lips Opened To Retort With A Sentence He Knew Would Sting
Like A Whiplash. But He Thought Better Of It. He Would Not Try Plucking
The Mote Out Of Another Man's Eye, When He Had So Recently Got Clear Of
The Beam In His Own.
Tommy Did Not Tarry Long After That. He Wished Thompson Good Luck, But
He Left Behind Him The Impression That He Privately Considered It A Poor
Move. Thompson Was Willing To Concede That From A Purely Material
Standpoint It Was A Poor Move. But He Could No Longer Adopt The Purely
Materialistic View. It Had Suddenly Become Clear To Him That He Must
Go--And _Why_ He Must Go. Just As The Citizen Whose House Gets On Fire
Knows Beyond Peradventure That He Must Quench The Flames If It Lies In
His Power.
The Royal Flying Corps Arrives At Its Ends Slowly. Perhaps Not Too
Slowly For The Niceness Of Choice That Must Be Made. Presently There
Came To Wesley Thompson A Brief Order To Report At A Training Camp In
Eastern Canada.
When He Held This Paper In His Hand And Knew Himself Committed
Irrevocably To The Greatest Game Of All, He Felt A Queer, Inner Glow, A
Quiet Satisfaction Such As Must Come To A Man Who Succeeds In Some High
Enterprise. Thompson Felt This In Spite Of Desperate Facts. He Had No
Illusions As To What He Had Set About. He Knew Very Well That In The
R.F.C. It Was A Short Life And Not Always A Merry One. Of Course A Man
Might Be Lucky. He Might Survive By Superior Skill. In Any Case It Had
To Be Done.
But He Was Moved Likewise By A Strange Loneliness, And With His Orders
In His Hand He Understood At Last The Source Of That Peculiar Regret
Which Latterly Had Assailed Him In Stray Moments. There Were A Few
Friends To Bid Good-By. And Chief, If She Came Last On His Round Of
Calls That Last Day, Was Sophie Carr.
He Found Sophie At Home About Four In The Afternoon, Sitting In The Big
Living Room, Making Red Cross Bandages. She Did Not Stop Her Work When
He Was Ushered In. Beside Her On A Table Stood A Flat Box And In This
From Time To Time She Put A Finished Roll. It Occurred To Thompson That
Sometime One Of Those White Bandages Fabricated By Her Hands Might Be
Chapter 20 (And The Bomb The Fuse Fired) Pg 138Used On Him.
He Smiled A Bit Sardonically, For The Thought Arose Also That In The
Flying Corps The Man Who Lost In Aerial Combat Needed Little Besides A
Coffin--And Sometimes Not Even That.
Sophie Looked At Him Almost Somberly.
"I'm Working, Don't You See?" She Said Curtly.
He Had Never Seen Her In Quite That Unapproachable Mood. He Wanted Her
To Forget The Red Cross And The War For A Little While, To Look And
Speak With The Old Lightness. He Wasn't A Sentimental Man, But He Did
Want To Go Away With A Picture Of Her Smiling. He Had Not Told Her He
Was Going. He Did Not Mean To Tell Her Till He Was Leaving, And Then
Only To Say Casually: "Well, Good-By. I'm Off For A Training-Camp
To-Night." He Had Always Suspected There Was Something Of The Spartan In
Sophie Carr's Make-Up. Even If He Had Not Divined That, He Had No
Intention Of Making A Fuss About His Going, Of Trying To Pose As A Hero.
But He Was A Normal Man, And He Wanted His Last Recollection Of Her--If
It _Should_ Be His Last--To Be A Pleasant One.
And Sophie Was Looking At Him Now, Fixedly, A Frosty Gleam In Her Gray
Eyes. She Looked A Moment, And Her Breast Heaved. She Swept The Work Off
Her Lap With A Sudden, Swift Gesture.
"What Is The Matter With You--And Dozens Of Men Like You That I Know?"
She Demanded In A Choked Voice. "You Stay At Home Living Easy And
Getting Rich In The Security That Other Men Are Buying With Their Blood
And Their Lives, Over There. Fighting Against Odds And Dying Like Dogs
In A Ditch So That We Can Live Here In Peace And Comfort. You Don't Even
Do Anything Useful Here. There Doesn't Seem To Be Anything That Can Make
You Work Or Fight. They Can Sink Passenger Ships And Bomb Undefended
Towns And Shell Hospitals, And You Don't Seem To Resent It. I've Heard
You Prate About Service--When You Thought You Walked With God And Had A
Mission From God To Show Other Men The Way. Why Don't You Serve Now?
What Is The Matter With You? Is Your Skin So Precious? If You Can't
Fight, Can't You Make Ammunition Or Help To Build Ships? Are You A Man,
Or Just A Rabbit? I Wish To God _I_ Were A Man."
Thompson Rose To His Feet. The Lash Of Her Tongue Had Not Lost Its Power
To Sting Since Those Far-Off Lone Moose Days. Yet, Though It Stabbed
Like A Spear, He Was More Conscious Of A Passionate Craving To Gather
Her Into His Arms Than Of Anger And Resentment. There Were Tears In
Sophie's Eyes--But There Was No Softness In Her Tone. Her Red Lips
Curled As Thompson Looked At Her In Dazed Silence. There Did Not Seem To
Be Anything He Could Say--Not With Sophie Looking At Him Like That.
"If You Feel That Way About It--"
He Broke Off In The Middle Of The Muttered Sentence, Turned On His Heel,
Walked Out Of The Room. And He Went Down The Street Suffering From A
Species Of Shock, Saying Desperately To Himself That It Did Not Matter,
Nothing Mattered.
But He Knew That Was A Lie, A Lie He Told Himself To Keep His Soul From
Growing Sick.
Chapter 20 (And The Bomb The Fuse Fired) Pg 139
He Went Back To His Rooms For The Last Time, And Tried With Pen And
Paper To Set Down Some Justification Of Himself For Sophie's Eyes. But
He Could Not Satisfy Himself With That. His Pride Revolted Against It.
Why Should He Plead? Or Rather, What Was The Use Of Pleading? Why
Should He Explain? He Had A Case For The Defence, But Defence Avails
Nothing After Sentence Has Been Pronounced. He Had Waited Too Long. He
Had Been Tried And Found Wanting.
He Tore The Letter Into Strips, And Having Sent His Things To The
Station Long Before, Put On His Hat Now And Walked Slowly There Himself,
For It Lacked But An Hour Of Train-Time.
At The Corner Of Pender And Hastings He Met Sam Carr.
"Welcome, Youthful Stranger," Carr Greeted Heartily. "I Haven't Seen You
For A Long Time. Walk Down To The Strand With Me And Have A Drink. I've
Been Looking Over The Vancouver Construction Company's Yard, And It's A
Very Dry Place."
Thompson Assented. He Had Time And It Was On His Way. He Reacted
Willingly To The Suggestion. He Needed Something To Revive His Spirit,
But He Had Not Thought Of The Stimulus Of John Barleycorn Until Carr
Spoke.
In The Strand Bar He Poured Himself Half A Glass Of Scotch Whisky. Carr
Regarded Him Meditatively Over Port Wine.
"That's The First Time I Ever Saw You Touch The Hard Stuff," He
Observed.
"It Will Probably Be The Last," Thompson Replied.
"Why?"
"I'm Off," Thompson Explained. "I Have Sold Out My Business And Have
Been Accepted For The Royal Flying Corps. I'm Taking The Train At Six To
Report At Eastern Headquarters."
Carr Fingered The Stem Of His Empty Glass A Second. "I Hate To See You
Go, And Still I'm Glad You're Going," He Said With An Odd, Wistful Note
In His Voice. "I'd Go Too, Thompson, If I Weren't Too Old To Be Any Use
Over There."
"Eh?" Thompson Looked At Him Keenly. "Have You Been Revising Your
Philosophy Of Life?"
"No. Merely Bringing It Up To Date," Carr Replied Soberly. "We Have What
We Have In The Way Of Government, Economic Practice, Principles Of
Justice, Morality--So Forth And So On. I'm Opposed To A Lot Of It. Too
Much That's Obsolete. A Lot That's Downright Bad. But Bad As It Is In
Spots, It Is Not A Circumstance To What We Should Have To Endure If The
Germans Win This War. I Believe In My People And My Country. I Don't
Believe In The German System Of Dominating By Sheer Force And Planned
Terror. The Militarists And The Market Hunters Have Brought Us To This.
But We Have To Destroy The Bogey They Have Raised Before We Can Deal
With Them. And A Man Can't
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