Page Two EYES By Fred Kendell War. Men scurry silently through muddy, rat-filled, cold trenches. Boom! A cannon roars and shells sail whining and screeching overhead. They crash. Men dive for protection in the cold, swampy trenches. Some are hit. Limbs fly in every direction. Terrified men take part in humanity's most horrible throat-cutting. They have lived weeks and months in wet trenches, charging with bayonets, struggling like brutes, fighting with feet, hands, knives, and trampling on the faces and mangled limbs of wounded men. Then they stagger away at last, hardly knowing what they have been doing. They lie hour after hour between the lines at night, torturing themselves and listening to the screams of the tortured; hanging in agony on barbed wire till spouts of liquid fire release them; having their lungs shot through, their faces torn away, their limbs blown into space. These are the men who know what war really means. Whee-ee-ee! Another shell crashes over the trenches. "Steady, men!-" the captain shouts as he blows his whistle. Mike Johnson, one of the best soldiers in the rank, clasps his rifle with tense hands. The bayonet is fixed and ready. His tongue licks his pale quivering lips and his eyes bulge. His very soul is shaken, for he is frightened. Suddenly the men rush up and over the trenches. Johnson is carried along like an arm on the captain. He shakes all over. He looks toward the enemy with fearful eyes and wonders why he is wading through that seething muck, festered with a wiggling mass of dying humanity, merely to take other men's lives. He wonders if he is in hell, or dreaming a terrible dream. But no, something tugs at his sleeve. His left arm hurts. Raising his right hand, he feels a thick, sticky substance with his fingers. Blood! Mike Johnson opens his mouth, "Blood!" He thinks he screams the word, but he merely forms it with his tight, dry lips "Blood!" He pauses. He becomes suddenly brave brave because of fear. With a hoarse croak, he runs forward, stumbling over bloody mangled bodies of dead soldiers. He curses. An enemy is in front of him. He is there no longer. Johnson, full of rage, jerks the gun into position, pulls the trigger of his powerful rifle, and runs swiftly forward. A young boy in a greenish uniform throws down his gun. He tries to say something. Johnson laughs wildly. He lunges forward, driving his bayonet through the boy's belly. The boy groans. His fingers grasp the blade strongly before Johnson can pull it out. His knees buckle under him. His eyes roll. They look deeply into Johnson's. "Why do you kill me?" they seem to say. The boy mutters a word. It sounds like "Mother". His eyes roll wildly. They look piercingly into Johnson's, burning and begging. Why do you kill me? Savagely, Johnson tries to draw out the steel. It won't come. He twists and turns the sharp blade, making the hole larger. The boy's fingers grasp the bayonet more strongly. No! No! You cannot take it back! It is mine! Johnson growls. He places his foot against the boy's chest and pulls. Slowly the blade slips out. The boy's fingers are cut. They bleed. At last the steel is free! A thick red river follows it out of the sheath made in the boy's belly. The eyes roll. They look into Johnson's. Deeply! Deeply! The boy smiles, gives one last long look, shivers a little, is dead. The conquering soldier looks at his bayonet. It is a sticky .red. A beautiful red. His glance falls on one of his nervous hands. Blood! Blood on his hand! He looks at the boy. The boy stares macabrely at him, his eyes still open and gaping. * * * * "Doctor," says Mike Johnson, "I don't feel well." The doctor laughs a hearty professional laugh. "What is the matter?" "I don't know. I just don't feel well." The doctor examines him. "You are a nervous man. You should sleep more. You need rest." But Johnson does not sleep; nor does he rest. He can't. When he does sleep he sees those piercing eyes. Johnson is slowly going mad. The eyes stare at him. They follow him everywhere. They beg. They burn. Why do you kill me? Johnson shivers. His wife looks at him. "What is the matter, Mike?" He doesn't answer. He is afraid of those eyes. "Doctor! You've got to help me!" "Rest, man, rest! Go to the country and rest!" Johnson goes. He will never come back. The countryside is beautiful. The sun is big and bright like a huge waxed orange. Everybody is happy except Johnson. The fields are ready to be harvested. The sweeping grain tresses are like silk, bending and swaying in the frolicking breezes. At night the moon, a huge ball glowing with a suppressed light, floats lazily across the sleeping little farm house, like a tigress stalking through the shadowy wood. But Johnson does not come out to enjoy the rich golden harvest days. The farmer does not bother him, for he must rest. It is the doctor's orders, he tells the farmer. Soon Johnson cannot stay alone in his room. He goes out. It is night. The stars are watching like eyes. The sound of the frogs is like the sound of dying soldiers. Those stars stare at him. Why do you kill me? He runs into a nearby barn. A rope hangs from a beam. It beckons to him. Johnson grasps his throat. "No! No! Not that!" he gasps. He runs out. "I shall go mad thinking of those things," he thinks. He runs and stumbles and falls. There are round things like heads lying on the ground melons. To Johnson they are heads. They have eyes that stare, beg, and burn. He gets up and feebly runs back to the farmhouse. In the morning he eats no breakfast. Gruffly he tells everyone not to bother him; he wishes to be left entirely alone. It is another dreadful night. The moon and stars are exceedingly brilliant. Johnson is pacing up and down in his room like a caged cat. He is a man trying to escape from something he fears. His hands pass before his eyes. He whispers faintly to himself, "Those eyes are driving me mad!" 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