Burned Bridges, Bertrand W. Sinclair [ready to read books .txt] 📗

Returned Slowly. "Yes,  I

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 137

Profitable 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 138

Used 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