Burned Bridges by Bertrand W. Sinclair (win 10 ebook reader .TXT) 📖

Escape Nationalism. It's Bred In Us. What The

Tribe Thinks,  The Individual Thinks. This Thing Is In The Air. We Are

Getting Unanimous. Whether Or Not We Approve The Cause,  We Are Too Proud

Chapter 20 (And The Bomb The Fuse Fired) Pg 140

To Consider Getting Whipped In A War That Was Forced On Us. One Way And

Another,  No Matter What We Privately Think Of Our Politicians And

Industrial Barons And Our Institutions Generally,  It Is Becoming

Unthinkable To The Anglo-Saxon That The German Shall Stalk Rough-Shod

Over Us. We Are Beginning--We Common People--To Hate Him And His Works.

Look At You And Me. We Were Aloof At First. We Are Intelligent. We Have

Learned To Saddle Feeling With Logic. We Have Not Been Stampeded By

Military Bands And Oratory. Yet There Is Something In The Air. I Wish I

Could Fight. You Are Going To Fight. Not Because You Like Fighting,  But

Because You See Something To Fight For. And Before Long Those Who Cannot

See Will Be Very Few. Isn't That About Right?"

 

"I Think So," Thompson Replied.

 

"There You Are," Carr Went On. "Myself,  I Have Put Philosophic

Consideration In Abeyance For The Time. I've Got Primitive Again. Damn

The Central Powers! If I Had Seven Sons I'd Send Them All To The Front."

 

They Had Another Drink.

 

"Did You Go And Say Good-By To Sophie?" Carr Demanded Suddenly.

 

"I Saw Her,  But I Don't Think I Said Good-By," Thompson Said Absently.

He Was Thinking About Carr's Surprising Outburst. He Agreed Precisely

With What The Old Man Said. But He Had Not Suspected The Old Radical Of

Such Intensity. "I Didn't Tell Her I Was Going."

 

"You Didn't Tell Her," Carr Persisted. "Why Not?"

 

"For A Variety Of Reasons." He Found It Hard To Assume Lightness With

Those Shrewd Old Eyes Searchingly Upon Him. "You Can Tell Her Good-By

For Me. Well,  Let's Have A Last One. It'll Be A Good Many Moons Before

You And I Look Over A Glass At Each Other Again. If I Don't Come Back

I'll Be In Honorable Company. And I'll Give Them Hell While I Last."

 

Carr Walked With Him Down To The Train.

 

"When The War Broke Out," He Said To Thompson At The Coach Steps,  "If

You Had Proposed To Go I Should Privately Have Considered You A Damned

Idealistic Fool. Now I Envy You. You Will Never Have To Make Apologies

To Yourself For Yourself,  Nor To Your Fellows. If I Strike A Blow That A

Free People May Remain Free To Work Out Their Destiny In Their Own

Fashion,  I Must Do It By Proxy. I Wish You All The Luck There Is,  Wes

Thompson. I Hope You Come Back Safe To Us Again."

 

They Shook Hands. A Voice Warned All And Sundry That The Train Was About

To Leave,  And Over The Voice Rose The Strident Notes Of A Gong. Thompson

Climbed The Steps,  Passed Within,  Thrust His Head Through An Open Window

As The Imperial Limited Gathered Way. His Last Glimpse Of A Familiar

Face Was Of Carr Standing Bareheaded,  Looking Wistfully After The

Gliding Coaches.

 

 

 

The Grandfather Clock In The Hall Was Striking Nine When Sam Carr Came

Home. He Hung His Hat On The Hall-Tree And Passed With Rather Unsteady

Steps Into The Living Room. He Moved Circumspectly,  With The Peculiar

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Caution Of The Man Who Knows That He Is Intoxicated And Governs His

Movements Accordingly. Carr's Legs Were Very Drunk And He Was Aware Of

This,  But His Head Was Perfectly Clear. He Managed To Negotiate Passage

To A Seat Near His Daughter.

 

Sophie Was Sitting In A Big Chair,  Engulfed Therein,  One Might Say. A

Reading Lamp Stood On The Table At Her Elbow. A Book Lay In Her Lap. But

She Was Staring At The Wall Absently,  And Beyond A Casual Glance At Her

Father She Neither Moved Nor Spoke,  Nor Gave Any Sign Of Being Stirred

Out Of This Profound Abstraction.

 

Carr Sank Into His Chair With A Sigh Of Relief.

 

"I Am Just About Pickled,  I Do Believe," He Observed To The Room At

Large.

 

"So I See," Sophie Commented Impersonally. "Is There Anything Uncommon

About That? I Am Beginning To Think Prohibition Will Be Rather A

Blessing To You,  Dad,  When It Comes."

 

"Huh!" Carr Grunted. "I Suppose One Drink Does Lead To Another. But I

Don't Need To Be Legally Safe-Guarded Yet,  Thank You. My Bibulosity Is

Occasional. When It Becomes Chronic I Shall Take To The Woods."

 

"Sometimes I Find Myself Wishing We Had Never Come Out Of The Woods,"

Sophie Murmured.

 

"What?" Carr Exclaimed. Then: "That's Rich. You With A Sure Income

Beyond Your Needs,  In Your Own Right,  With Youth And Health And Beauty,

With All Your Life Before You,  Wishing To Revert To What You Used To Say

Was A Living Burial? That's Equivalent To Holding That The Ostrich

Philosophy Is The True One--What You Cannot See Does Not Exist. That

Ignorance Is Better Than Knowledge--That--That--Hang It,  My Dear,  Are

You Going To Turn Reactionary? But That's A Woman. Now Why Should--"

 

"Oh,  Don't Begin One Of Your Interminable,  Hair-Splitting Elucidations,"

Sophie Protested. "I Know It's Showing Weakness To Desire To Run Away

From Trouble. I Don't Know That I Have Any Trouble To Run From. I'm Not

Sure I Should Dodge Trouble If I Could. I Was Just Voicing A Stray

Thought. We _Were_ Happy At Lone Moose,  Weren't We,  Dad?"

 

"After A Fashion," Carr Replied Promptly. "As The Animal Is Happy With

A Full Belly And A Comfortable Place To Sleep. But We Both Craved A

Great Deal More Than That Of Life."

 

"And We Are Not Getting More," Sophie Retorted. "When You Come Right

Down To Fundamentals We Eat A Greater Variety Of Food,  Wear Better

Clothes,  Live On A Scale That By Our Former Standards Is The Height Of

Luxury. But Not One Of My Dreams Has Come True. And You Find Solace In A

Wine Glass Where You Used To Find It In Books. Over In Europe Men Are

Destroying Each Other Like Mad Beasts. At Home,  While Part Of The Nation

Plays The Game Square,  There's Another Part That Grafts And Corrupts And

Profiteers And Slacks To No End. It's A Rotten World."

 

"By Gad,  You Have Got The Blue Glasses On To-Night,  And No Mistake,"

Carr Mused. "That's Unmitigated Pessimism,  Sophie. What You Need Is A

Vacation. Let Somebody Else Run This Women's Win-The-War Show For

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Awhile,  And You Take A Rest. That's Nerves."

 

"I Can't. There Is Too Much To Do," Sophie Said Shortly. "I Don't Want

To. If I Sat Down And Folded My Hands These Days I'd Go Crazy."

 

Carr Grunted. For A Minute Neither Spoke. Sophie Lay Back In Her Chair,

Eyes Half Closed,  Fingers Beating A Slow Rat-A-Tat On The Chair-Arm.

 

"Have You Seen Wes Thompson Lately?" Carr Inquired At Last.

 

"I Saw Him This Afternoon," Sophie Replied.

 

"Did He Tell You He Was Going Overseas?"

 

"No." Sophie's Interest Seemed Languid,  Judged By Her Tone.

 

"You Saw Him This Afternoon,  Eh?" Carr Drawled. "That's Queer."

 

"What's Queer?" Sophie Demanded.

 

"That He Would See You And Not Tell You Where He Was Off To," Carr Went

On. "I Saw Him Away On The Limited At Six-O'clock. He Told Me To Tell

You Good-By. He's Gone To The Front."

 

Sophie Sat Upright.

 

"How Could He Do That?" She Said Impatiently. "A Man Can't Get Into

Uniform And Leave For France On Two Hours' Notice. He Called Here About

Four. Don't Be Absurd."

 

"I Don't See Anything Absurd Except Your Incredulous Way Of Taking It,"

Carr Defended Stoutly. "I Tell You He's Gone. I Saw Him Take The Train.

Who Said Anything About Two Hours' Notice? I Should Imagine He Has Been

Getting Ready For Some Time. You Know Wes Thompson Well Enough To Know

That He Doesn't Chatter About What He's Going To Do. He Sold Out His

Business Two Weeks Ago,  And Has Been Waiting To Be Passed In His Tests.

He Has Finally Been Accepted And Ordered To Report East For Training In

Aviation. He Joined The Royal Flying Corps."

 

Carr Did Not Know That In The Circle Of War Workers Where Sophie Moved

So Much The R.F.C. Was Spoken Of As The "Legion Of Death." No One Knew

The Percentage Of Casualties In That Gallant Service. Such Figures Were

Never Published. All That These Women Knew Was That Their Sons And

Brothers And Lovers,  Clean-Limbed Children Of The Well-To-Do,  Joined The

Flying Corps,  And That Their Lives,  If Glorious,  Were All Too Brief

Once They Reached The Western Front. Only The Supermen,  The Favored Of

God,  Survived A Dozen Aerial Combats. To Have A Son Or A Brother Flying

In France Meant Mourning Soon Or Late. So They Spoke Sometimes,  In

Bitter Pride,  Of Their Birdmen As The "Legion Of Death",  A Gruesome

Phrase And Apt.

 

Carr Knew The Heavy Casualties Of Aerial Fighting. But He Had Never Seen

A Proud Woman Break Down Before The Ominous Cablegram,  He Had Never Seen

A Girl Sit Dry-Eyed And Ashy-White,  Staring Dumbly At A Slip Of Yellow

Paper. And Sophie Had--Many A Time. To Her,  A Commission In The Royal

Flying Corps Had Come To Mean Little Short Of A Death Warrant.

 

Chapter 20 (And The Bomb The Fuse Fired) Pg 143

She Sat Now Staring Blankly At Her Father.

 

"He Closed Up His Business And Joined The Flying Corps Two Weeks Ago."

 

She Repeated This Stupidly,  As If She Found It Almost Impossible To

Comprehend.

 

"That's What I Said," Carr Replied Testily. "What The Devil Did You Do

To Him That He Didn't Tell You,  If He Was Here Only Two