The Weber Literary Journal Three Tears Later By Gwendolyn Nelson GOOD-BYE, comrade; now we must part. All these months we have fought side by side, eating the same sort of food, risking our lives in the same manner. It is all over now. Would to Heaven that I could go with you, but no, that is impossible. You were strong I was weak that is all. I could never go back and look in my dear mother's face again. It would break her heart to know the blackness of my soul. When I think of that I shudder. After all of her words of council and advice I have come to this. When the gang plank is withdrawn I will proceed to lose myself in the great wave of humanity which wanders the earth. No one not even yourself will ever know what become of Private 4968. "Tell mother that I did not come back after the last drive .It is better that she should be thus deceived than her faith in me be broken. It would kill her. But someday I might come back and visit the old place; but that will be in the blackness of night; and if I come there will be a sign and you will know. "See, they are nearly ready. Goodbye, old pal. Remember, there will be a sign." With a heavy grating the gang plank was drawn to the side of the ship and hundreds of khaki hats waved a last farewell to sunny France. France, whose very soul was crippled; whose sod was stained with the blood of many nations; France, the battle ground of the world. The ship pulled steadily out to sea and started its long voyage across the Atlantic. The khaki hats still waved. Long after the forgetting crowds had dispersed, the soldier lingered. He could not forget that parting. His eyes were solidly turned on the fast disappearing ship which was carrying his playmate of childhood, his comrade of the battle-field, back home. His eyes never faltered from the ship, and his thoughts were of a white haired mother waiting in the West for his return. The anguish of his soul was written on his face. 24 The Weber Literary Journal It was a young face marred by the terrors of war, aided by stern dissipation. This lone soldier tarried long at the harbor; face rigid, the eyes filled with dispair were ever turned westward. His hands clinched at his sides. Gradually relaxing, the gray eyes sought the heavens and a prayer formed on the quivering lips. Three years later the same gray eyes peered through the window of a little hut of a small western town. All about was snow. The air was thick with its falling flakes. The face of the soldier had changed much since he stood at the harbor and watched the shipload of soldiers leave France. The expression of his eyes had become weary; the lines of his haggard thin face had deepened. The gray eyes eagerly watched an old woman who tottered about in the small room. She was alone within; he was alone without. They were both alone in the world, those two. Why could he not go in and make himself known? Why must he roam the world as a hobo? She would forgive him, he was sure. But the voice within said, "No." On the mantle was a picture of a young man in uniform. She was sitting in her old rocker by the fireplace, letting her gaze rest on the boyish features. What a contrast the face of the picture and the face which peered through the window. That was the way she had seen him last young and smiling. She would not know him now. She was speaking. He pressed nearer the window. "Oh my boy," came from those withered lips. "'Tis five years tonight since you left. That's just the expression you had on your face when you waved goodbye from the car window. I knew you would do your best for your country and for me. I sometimes feel that you will come back. I cannot believe that you are dead." All was quiet again. The mother inside sat with head bowed, thinking. The boy on the outside took a determined step to the door, then stopped. He could not show himself in this condition; his clothes were misfit and shabby; his face was unshaved; his unkempt hair protruded from under his slouch hat. 25