Lovely War(80)

The officer tasked with luring him out was more humane than some. He coaxed the hiding man to hand out his identity discs, so they could find someone he knew. He complied. The discs, formerly strung about his neck, gave his name as Private J. Alderidge, Fifth Army, 7th Corps, 39th Division, D Company. With some hollering, they found another soldier who knew him: Private William Nutley.

Billy tried to talk in him into coming out. When coaxing wouldn’t work, Billy crawled in after him. He yielded up his guns to his comrade without resistance, and Billy scooped up James, all six feet of him, and carried him out of the dugout.

Clamped against Billy’s chest, James began to shake. Nighttime bombardment shot little bursts of orange light that were almost festive, like fireworks.

“It’s all right, Jim,” Billy told his comrade. “It’s all right.”

“Have you seen Mason?”

“I haven’t,” said Billy.

He almost added, “I’m sure he’s fine.” But I cautioned him against it. Lies are worse than no comfort at all. Especially to a mind already scorched by the truth.

Billy brought him to the Red Cross tent. James lay there, twitching, shivering under a thin sheet and blanket. When a nurse approached his cot, he sat up and took her by the arms and said, “Have you seen Frank Mason?”

“Sedative,” called the nurse. An orderly appeared. He plunged a steel syringe and needle into a bottle and drew up a dose of something. James felt a sharp pinch in his arm, and remembered no more.





ENTR’ACTE





APHRODITE


     The Fates of Certain Letters





WHEN A LETTER arrived at YMCA Relief Hut One, addressed to Colette Fournier, sent from Aix-les-Bains, Mrs. Celestine Davies reasoned with herself. This letter could be from any American serviceman. But most likely, it came from one of the Negro soldiers in that traveling army band that had gone there to perform.

So instead of sending the letter to the address she kept on file for Miss Fournier—some female relative in Paris—she forwarded the letter, with a note of complaint, to a staff sergeant at the US Army HQ in Saint-Nazaire. Negro soldiers were behaving wantonly toward white YMCA volunteers. American army leadership needed to take responsibility for its Negro problem.

The staff sergeant, to his credit, opening the letter and, finding it contained nothing more provocative than a wordless snatch of music, rolled his eyes and tossed it into the trash.

A letter from a Private J. Alderidge, serving in the Fifth Army, north of Paris, arrived at Hut One addressed to Miss Hazel Windicott. Mrs. Davies’s patriotic heart bled for the poor young man. J. Alderidge, serving King and Country, deserved far better than to waste his affections on an object such as Hazel. She may be faintly pretty, and she may play piano in a nice sort of way (though Celestine had heard better), but she wasn’t worthy.

So Mrs. Davies returned his letter to him, care of the Fifth Army, and enclosed within it a note explaining that Miss Windicott had been dismissed in disgrace from the YMCA for entertaining men of ill repute after hours. She omitted mentioning that at least one had been a Negro, seeing no reason to wound Private Alderidge’s natural manly pride. She had left, Mrs. Davies said, no forwarding address.

One other breakdown of mail communication to note had nothing to do with Mrs. Celestine Davies.

As the sounds of shelling and dire news reports poured into Paris, Hazel sent letter after letter to James, letting him know where she could now be reached and begging him to write to let her know that he was safe. They were addressed to his attention, in care of the Fifth Army, but in their present state of chaos and retreat, and in light of events that followed, most of Hazel’s letters never reached James. Thousands of letters were mislaid at this time. When eventually the dust settled, and overlooked mail bags were distributed, there was no Private James Alderidge to give letters to.





ACT FOUR





ARES


     Chocolate—March 24–April 5, 1918





WITHIN DAYS, PARIS newspapers were full of the horrible news. The British Fifth Army, stationed from Gouzeaucourt to the Oise River, had suffered a devastating defeat. Spring offensive hostilities, centered around Saint-Quentin, dubbed “Operation Michael” by the Germans, had all but annihilated the Fifth Army. The Germans had pushed the front line some sixty miles back.

Sixty miles lost! After years of virtual stalemate!

Worse than miles, tens of thousands of lives were lost on both sides, in just a few days’ fighting. The defeat was so bad, the Fifth Army was being disbanded.

Hazel, reading Paris papers with her sketchy schoolgirl French, went numb with shock. An entire army, dissolved due to failure and massive losses. Was James among them? She refused to believe it. Yet with an entire army disbanded, what else could she think?

Were the Germans actually going to win this war, after so much British bravery and sacrifice, and with the Americans lining up at the doorstep?

If any silver lining was to be found, it was this: The Allies had stopped the Germans eventually. The Jerrys had failed to take the city of Amiens, or reach the Channel ports. Britain’s vital command of the seas remained in force. That, the Allies felt, was more crucial. Paris was still as safe as it could be when the Germans had long-range guns pointed straight at it.