War Letters from the Living Dead Man by Elsa Barker Page B

impatience found something congenial in the hurry and noise of the expedition. He was glad to go. He had known a German in London and had disliked him thoroughly. The German talked too much, and his loud tones jarred on the sensitive ears of the refined officer. As he led his men into battle he thought of this German. He felt that he was battling with him at last face to face, and the feeling gave him a thrill of satisfaction. Hate had become an almost sensual luxury. The German had fascinated by his blustering personality a woman of rather coarse type to whom the officer had been impatiently attracted. He hated himself for the attraction, and he hated the German for frustrating it. We always hate those who frustrate the emotions we hate. The officer was killed by a German bullet, in the early days of the war. Where? Oh, no matter where! There are those who might recognize the man, and I am not a betrayer of unwilling confidences. When I listen at the keyhole of life I never report too much of what I hear. I use my discretion. I shall call this man my friend, for I was so much his friend that I have a right to claim him. Before the battle in which my friend met death I had lingered near him, with a desire to soften the hard feelings in his heart. Those feelings are not usual among the soldiers of a particular section of the northern battle line. To them fighting is a sort of glorified sport—or it was so last September.
    My friend was an exception, and that is why I choose to write about him, that my assertion of his exceptional qualities may keep the reader from shuddering too much. I should not like my readers to feel that their friends went through a similar experience. You who hang above this page, my friend was not your friend. The experiences of your friends were less terrible. They were all better men than he, because you loved them, and this man was not good because he was not loved enough. He met death by a rifle bullet. Then all became dark before him, and he was unconscious for a time. He was awakened by the noise of a bursting shell. “The battle has begun,” he thought. “Damn that man! He should have awakened me at dawn.” He was among the men of his regiment. They seemed larger than usual, and blurred in outline. He rubbed his eyes. “Hell and damnation! Who have they put in my place?” For he saw a minor officer who commanded where he had commanded.
    He turned away, then came back again. He would demand to know! He started toward the place where his superior officer should have been, some distance away, and found himself instantly there. “What is the matter with me?” he thought. “Have I lost my mind?” He saluted the officer, who paid no attention to him. “Am I asleep?” he wondered. He went up to a soldier who was loading a rifle and touched him on the arm. The soldier also paid no attention. He gripped the man’s arm. Still he paid no attention, but raised his rifle and fired. My friend went toward two men who were talking together. “Poor old --------!” he heard one of them say. “Shot through the heart! He was a good officer, though a surly fellow. I’m sorry he’s dead.”
    The -------- they spoke of was himself. “Shot through the heart—a good officer—a surly fellow—dead!” He knew. Knowledge sometimes comes more slowly. He was “dead.” “Just my luck!” was his instinctive thought. Another shell burst behind him with a shattering report. Suddenly he saw before him a face that riveted his attention. It was a malignant, an insolent face. Then it changed into the face of his enemy, the German back in England whom he hated. “So it’s you, is it?” he asked. The spectre made no answer, but changed its shape again. This time it was like the woman whom my friend had hated himself for liking. “You, too!” he said, impatiently. Again the specter changed countenance. It was like a servant whom my friend had cursed once too often, and who had left him the year before.