ترجمات
A Coward
Guy de Maupassant
Society called him Handsome Signoles. His name was Viscount Gontran-Joseph de Signoles.
An orphan, and possessed of an adequate income, he cut a dash, as the saying is. He had a good figure and a good carriage, a sufficient flow of words to pass for wit, a certain natural grace, an air of nobility and pride, a gallant moustache and an eloquent eye, attributes which women like.
He was in demand in drawing-rooms, sought after for valses, and in men he inspired that smiling hostility which is reserved for vital and attractive rivals. He had been suspected of several love-affairs of a sort calculated to create a good opinion of a youngster. He lived a happy, care-free life, in the most complete well-being of body and mind. He was known to be a fine swordsman and a still finer shot with the pistol.
“When I come to fight a duel,” he would say, “I shall choose pistols. With that weapon, I’m sure of killing my man.”
One evening, he went to the theatre with two ladies, quite young, friends of his, whose husbands were also of the party, and after the performance he invited them to take ices at Tortoni’s.
They had been sitting there for a few minutes when he noticed a gentleman at a neighbouring table staring obstinately at one of the ladies of the party. She seemed embarrassed and ill at ease, and bent her head. At last she said to her husband:
“There’s a man staring at me. I don’t know him; do you?”
The husband, who had seen nothing, raised his eyes, but declared:
“No, not in the least.”
Half smiling, half in anger, she replied:
“It’s very annoying; the creature’s spoiling my ice.”
Her husband shrugged his shoulders.
“Deuce take him, don’t appear to notice it. If we had to deal with all the discourteous people one meets, we’d never have done with them.”
But the Viscount had risen abruptly. He could not permit this stranger to spoil an ice of his giving. It was to him that the insult was addressed, since it was at his invitation and on his account that his friends had come to the cafe. The affair was no business of anyone but himself.
He went up to the man and said:
“You have a way of looking at those ladies, sir, which I cannot stomach. Please be so good as to set a limit to your persistence.”
“You hold your tongue,” replied the other.
“Take care, sir,” retorted the Viscount, clenching his teeth;” you’ll force me to overstep the bounds of common politeness.”
The gentleman replied with a single word, a vile word which rang across the cafe from one end to the other, and, like the release of a spring, jerked every person present into an abrupt movement. All those with their backs towards him turned round, all the rest raised their heads; three waiters spun round on their heels like tops; the two ladies behind the counter started, then the whole upper half of their bodies twisted round, as though they were a couple of automata worked by the same handle.
There was a profound silence. Then suddenly a sharp noise resounded in the air. The Viscount had boxed his adversary’s ears. Every one rose to intervene. Cards were exchanged.
Back in his home, the Viscount walked for several minutes up and down his room with long quick strides. He was too excited to think. A solitary idea dominated his mind: “a duel”; but as yet the idea stirred in him no emotion of any kind. He had done what he was compelled to do; he had shown himself to be what he ought to be. People would talk of it, would approve of him, congratulate him. He repeated aloud, speaking as a man speaks in severe mental distress:
“What a hound the fellow is!”
Then he sat down and began to reflect. In the morning he must find seconds. Whom should he choose? He searched his mind for the most important and celebrated names of his acquaintance. At last he decided on the Marquis de la Tour-Noire and Colonel Bourdin, an aristocrat and a soldier; they would do excellently. Their names would look well in the papers. He realised that he was thirsty, and drank three glasses of water one after the other; then he began to walk up and down again. He felt full of energy. If he played the gallant, showed himself determined, insisted on the most strict and dangerous arrangements, demanded a serious duel, a thoroughly serious duel, a positively terrible duel, his adversary would probably retire an apologist.
He took up once more the card which he had taken from his pocket and thrown down upon the table, and read it again as he had read it before, in the cafe, at a glance, and in the cab, by the light of each gas-lamp, on his way home.
“Georges Lamil, 51 rue Moncey.” Nothing more.
He examined the grouped letters; they seemed to him mysterious, full of confused meaning. Georges Lamil? Who was this man? What did he do? Why had he looked at the woman in that way? Was it not revolting that a stranger, an unknown man, could thus disturb a man’s life, without warning, just because he chose to fix his insolent eyes upon a woman? Again the Viscount repeated aloud:
“What a hound!”
Then he remained standing stock-still, lost in thought, his eyes still fixed upon the card. A fury against this scrap of paper awoke in him, a fury of hatred in which was mingled a queer sensation of uneasiness. This sort of thing was so stupid! He took up an open knife which lay close at hand and thrust it through the middle of the printed name, as though he had stabbed a man.
So he must fight. Should he choose swords or pistols?–for he regarded himself as the insulted party. With swords there would be less risk, but with pistols there was a chance that his adversary might withdraw. It is very rare that a duel with swords is fatal, for mutual prudence is apt to restrain combatants from engaging at sufficiently close quarters for a point to penetrate deeply. With pistols he ran a grave risk of death; but he might also extricate himself from the affair with all the honours of the situation and without actually coming to a meeting.
“I must be firm,” he said. “He will take fright.”
The sound of his voice set him trembling, and he looked round. He felt very nervous. He drank another glass of water, then began to undress for bed.
As soon as he was in bed, he blew out the light and closed his eyes.
“I’ve the whole of to-morrow,” he thought, “in which to set my affairs in order. I’d better sleep now, so that I shall be quite calm.”
He was very warm in the blankets, but he could not manage to compose himself to sleep. He turned this way and that, lay for five minutes upon his back, turned on to his left side, then rolled over on to his right.
He was still thirsty. He got up to get a drink. A feeling of uneasiness crept over him:
“Is it possible that I’m afraid?”
Why did his heart beat madly at each familiar sound in his room? When the clock was about to strike, the faint squeak of the rising spring made him start; so shaken he was that for several seconds afterwards he had to open his mouth to get his breath.
He began to reason with himself on the possibility of his being afraid.
“Shall I be afraid?”
No, of course he would not be afraid, since he was resolved to see the matter through, and had duly made up his mind to fight and not to tremble. But he felt so profoundly distressed that he wondered:
“Can a man be afraid in spite of himself?”
He was attacked by this doubt, this uneasiness, this terror; suppose a force more powerful than himself, masterful, irresistible, overcame him, what would happen? Yes, what might not happen? Assuredly he would go to the place of the meeting, since he was quite ready to go. But supposing he trembled? Supposing he fainted? He thought of the scene, of his reputation, his good name.
There came upon him a strange need to get up and look at himself in the mirror. He relit his candle. When he saw his face reflected in the polished glass, he scarcely recognised it, it seemed to him as though he had never yet seen himself. His eyes looked to him enormous; and he was pale; yes, without doubt he was pale, very pale.
He remained standing in front of the mirror. He put out his tongue, as though to ascertain the state of his health, and abruptly the thought struck him like a bullet:
“The day after to-morrow, at this very hour, I may be dead.”
His heart began again its furious beating.
“The day after to-morrow, at this very hour, I may be dead. This person facing me, this me I see in the mirror, will be no more. Why, here I am, I look at myself, I feel myself alive, and in twenty-four hours I shall be lying in that bed, dead, my eyes closed, cold, inanimate, vanished.”
He turned back towards the bed, and distinctly saw himself lying on his back in the very sheets he had just left. He had the hollow face of a corpse, his hands had the slackness of hands that will never make another movement.
At that he was afraid of his bed, and, to get rid of the sight of it, went into the smoking-room. Mechanically he picked up a cigar, lit it, and began to walk up and down again. He was cold; he went to the bell to wake his valet; but he stopped, even as he raised his hand to the rope.
“He will see that I am afraid.”
He did not ring; he lit the fire. His hands shook a little, with a nervous tremor, whenever they touched anything. His brain whirled, his troubled thoughts became elusive, transitory, and gloomy; his mind suffered all the effects of intoxication, as though he were actually drunk.
Over and over again he thought:
“What shall I do? What is to become of me?”
His whole body trembled, seized with a jerky shuddering; he got up and, going to the window, drew back the curtains.
Dawn was at hand, a summer dawn. The rosy sky touched the town, its roofs and walls, with its own hue. A broad descending ray, like the caress of the rising sun, enveloped the awakened world; and with the light, hope–a gay, swift, fierce hope–filled the Viscount’s heart! Was he mad, that he had allowed himself to be struck down by fear, before anything was settled even, before his seconds had seen those of this Georges Lamil, before he knew whether he was going to fight?
He washed, dressed, and walked out with a firm step.
He repeated to himself, as he walked:
“I must be energetic, very energetic. I must prove that I am not afraid.”
His seconds, the Marquis and the Colonel, placed themselves at his disposal, and after hearty handshakes discussed the conditions.
“You are anxious for a serious duel? ” asked the Colonel.
“Yes, a very serious one,” replied the Viscount.
“You still insist on pistols?” said the Marquis.
“Yes.”
“You will leave us free to arrange the rest?”
In a dry, jerky voice the Viscount stated:
“Twenty paces; at the signal, raising the arm, and not lowering it. Exchange of shots till one is seriously wounded.”
“They are excellent conditions,” declared the Colonel in a tone of satisfaction. “You shoot well, you have every chance.”
They departed. The Viscount went home to wait for them. His agitation, momentarily quietened, was now growing minute by minute. He felt a strange shivering, a ceaseless vibration, down his arms, down his legs, in his chest; he could not keep still in one place, neither seated nor standing. There was not the least moistening of saliva in his mouth, and at every instant he made a violent movement of his tongue, as though to prevent it sticking to his palate.
He was eager to have breakfast, but could not eat. Then the idea came to him to drink in order to give himself courage, and he sent for a decanter of rum, of which he swallowed six liqueur glasses full one after the other.
A burning warmth flooded through his body, followed immediately by a sudden dizziness of the mind and spirit.
“Now I know what to do,” he thought. “Now it is all right.”
But by the end of an hour he had emptied the decanter, and his state of agitation had once more become intolerable. He was conscious of a wild need to roll on the ground, to scream, to bite. Night was falling.
The ringing of a bell gave him such a shock that he had not strength to rise and welcome his seconds.
He did not even dare to speak to them, to say “Good evening” to them, to utter a single word, for fear they guessed the whole thing by the alteration in his voice.
“Everything is arranged in accordance with the conditions you fixed,” observed the Colonel. “At first your adversary claimed the privileges of the insulted party, but he yielded almost at once, and has accepted everything. His seconds are two military men.”
“Thank you,” said the Viscount.
“Pardon us,” interposed the Marquis, “if we merely come in and leave again immediately, but we have a thousand things to see to. We must have a good doctor, since the combat is not to end until a serious wound is inflicted, and you know that pistol bullets are no laughing-matter. We must appoint the ground, near a house to which we may carry the wounded man if necessary, etc. In fact, we shall be occupied for two or three hours arranging all that there is to arrange.”
“Thank you,” said the Viscount a second time.
“You are all right?” asked the Colonel. “You are calm?”
“Yes, quite calm, thank you.”
The two men retired.
When he realised that he was once more alone, he thought that he was going mad. His servant had lit the lamps, and he sat down at the table to write letters. After tracing, at the head of a sheet: “This is my will,” he rose shivering and walked away, feeling incapable of connecting two ideas, of taking a resolution, of making any decision whatever.
So he was going to fight! He could no longer avoid it. Then what was the matter with him? He wished to fight, he had absolutely decided upon this plan of action and taken his resolve, and he now felt clearly, in spite of every effort of mind and forcing of will, that he could not retain even the strength necessary to get him to the place of meeting. He tried to picture the duel, his own attitude and the bearing of his adversary.
From time to time his teeth chattered in his mouth with a slight clicking noise. He tried to read, and took down Chateauvillard’s code of duelling. Then he wondered:
“Does my adversary go to shooting-galleries? Is he well known? Is he classified anywhere? How can I find out?”
He bethought himself of Baron Vaux’s book on marksmen with the pistol, and ran through it from end to end. Georges Lamil was not mentioned in it. Yet if the man were not a good shot, he would surely not have promptly agreed to that dangerous weapon and those fatal conditions?
He opened, in passing, a case by Gastinne Renette standing on a small table, and took out one of the pistols, then placed himself as though to shoot and raised his arm. But he was trembling from head to foot and the barrel moved in every direction.
At that, he said to himself:
“It’s impossible. I cannot fight in this state.”
He looked at the end of the barrel, at the little, black, deep hole that spits death; he thought of the disgrace, of the whispers at the club, of the laughter in drawing-rooms, of the contempt of women, of the allusions in the papers, of the insults which cowards would fling at him.
He was still looking at the weapon, and, raising the hammer, caught a glimpse of a cap gleaming beneath it like a tiny red flame. By good fortune or forgetfulness, the pistol had been left loaded. At the knowledge, he was filled with a confused inexplicable sense of joy.
If, when face to face with the other man, he did not show a proper gallantry and calm, he would be lost for ever. He would be sullied, branded with a mark of infamy, hounded out of society. And he would not be able to achieve that calm, that swaggering poise; he knew it, he felt it. Yet he was brave, since he wanted to fight I … He was brave, since….
The thought which hovered in him did not even fulfil itself in his mind; but, opening his mouth wide, he thrust in the barrel of his pistol with savage gesture until it reached his throat, and pressed on the trigger.
When his valet ran in, at the sound of the report, he found him lying dead upon his back. A shower of blood had splashed the white paper on the table, and made a great red mark beneath these four words:
“This is my will.”
Inspirational God Story : Wait For The Brick
A young and successful executive was traveling down a neighborhood street, going a bit too fast in his new Jaguar. He was watching for kids darting out from between parked cars and slowed down when he thought he saw something. As his car passed, no children appeared. Instead, a brick smashed into the Jag’s side door! He slammed on the brakes and drove the Jag back to the spot where the brick had been thrown. The angry driver then jumped out of the car, grabbed the nearest kid and pushed him up against a parked car, shouting, “What was that all about and who are you?
Just what the heck are you doing?
That’s a new car and that brick you threw is going to cost a lot of money.
Why did you do it?”
The young boy was apologetic. “Please mister … please, I’m sorry… I didn’t know what else to do,” he pleaded.
“I threw the brick because no one else would stop…”
With tears dripping down his face and off his chin, the youth pointed to a spot just around a parked car.
“It’s my brother,” he said.
“He rolled off the curb and fell out of his wheelchair and I can’t lift him up.”
Now sobbing, the boy asked the stunned executive, “Would you please help me get him back into his wheelchair? He’s hurt and he’s too heavy for me.”
Moved beyond words, the driver tried to swallow the rapidly swelling lump in his throat. He hurriedly lifted the handicapped boy back into the wheelchair, then took out his fancy handkerchief and dabbed at the fresh scrapes and cuts. A quick look told him everything was going to be okay.
“Thank you and may God bless you,” the grateful child told the stranger.
Too shook up for words, the man simply watched the little boy push his wheelchair-bound brother down the sidewalk toward their home. It was a long, slow walk back to the Jaguar. The damage was very noticeable, but the driver never bothered to repair the dented side door. He kept the dent there to remind him of this message: Don’t go through life so fast that someone has to throw a brick at you to get your attention
A short inspirational story :Two frogs
A group of frogs were traveling through the woods, and two of them
fell into a deep pit. When the other frogs saw how deep the pit
was, they told the two frogs that they were as good as dead. The
two frogs ignored the comments and tried to jump up out of the pit
with all their might. The other frogs kept telling them to stop,
that they were as good as dead. Finally, one of the frogs took
heed to what the other frogs were saying and gave up. He fell down
and died.
The other frog continued to jump as hard as he could. Once again,
the crowd of frogs yelled at him to stop the pain and just die. He
jumped even harder and finally made it out. When he got out, the
other frogs said, “Did you not hear us?” The frog explained to
them that he was deaf. He thought they were encouraging him the
entire time.
This story teaches two lessons:
1. There is power of life and death in the tongue. An encouraging
word to someone who is down can lift them up and help them make it
through the day.
2. A destructive word to someone who is down can be what it takes
to kill them.
Be careful of what you say. Speak life to those who cross your
path. The power of words… it is sometimes hard to understand
that an encouraging word can go such a long way. Anyone can speak
words that tend to rob another of the spirit to continue in
difficult times. Special is the individual who will take the time
to encourage another.
!
DARKNESS
by: Anton Chekhov
The following story is reprinted from The Horse Stealers and Other Stories. Trans. Constance Garnett. New York: Macmillan, 1921.
A YOUNG peasant, with white eyebrows and eyelashes and broad cheekbones, in a torn sheepskin and big black felt overboots, waited till the Zemstvo doctor had finished seeing his patients and came out to go home from the hospital; then he went up to him, diffidently.
“Please, your honour,” he said.
“What do you want?”
The young man passed the palm of his hand up and over his nose, looked at the sky, and then answered:
“Please, your honour. . . . You’ve got my brother Vaska the blacksmith from Varvarino in the convict ward here, your honour. . . .”
“Yes, what then?”
“I am Vaska’s brother, you see. . . . Father has the two of us: him, Vaska, and me, Kirila; besides us there are three sisters, and Vaska’s a married man with a little one. . . . There are a lot of us and no one to work. . . . In the smithy it’s nearly two years now since the forge has been heated. I am at the cotton factory, I can’t do smith’s work, and how can father work? Let alone work, he can’t eat properly, he can’t lift the spoon to his mouth.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Be merciful! Let Vaska go!”
The doctor looked wonderingly at Kirila, and without saying a word walked on. The young peasant ran on in front and flung himself in a heap at his feet.
“Doctor, kind gentleman!” he besought him, blinking and again passing his open hand over his nose. “Show heavenly mercy; let Vaska go home! We shall remember you in our prayers for ever! Your honour, let him go! They are all starving! Mother’s wailing day in, day out, Vaska’s wife’s wailing . . . it’s worse than death! I don’t care to look upon the light of day. Be merciful; let him go, kind gentleman!”
“Are you stupid or out of your senses?” asked the doctor angrily. “How can I let him go? Why, he is a convict.”
Kirila began crying. “Let him go!”
“Tfoo, queer fellow! What right have I? Am I a gaoler or what? They brought him to the hospital for me to treat him, but I have as much right to let him out as I have to put you in prison, silly fellow!
“But they have shut him up for nothing! He was in prison a year before the trial, and now there is no saying what he is there for. It would have been a different thing if he had murdered someone, let us say, or stolen horses; but as it is, what is it all about?”
“Very likely, but how do I come in?”
“They shut a man up and they don’t know themselves what for. He was drunk, your honour, did not know what he was doing, and even hit father on the ear and scratched his own cheek on a branch, and two of our fellows–they wanted some Turkish tobacco, you see–began telling him to go with them and break into the Armenian’s shop at night for tobacco. Being drunk, he obeyed them, the fool. They broke the lock, you know, got in, and did no end of mischief; they turned everything upside down, broke the windows, and scattered the flour about. They were drunk, that is all one can say! Well, the constable turned up . . . and with one thing and another they took them off to the magistrate. They have been a whole year in prison, and a week ago, on the Wednesday, they were all three tried in the town. A soldier stood behind them with a gun . . . people were sworn in. Vaska was less to blame than any, but the gentry decided that he was the ringleader. The other two lads were sent to prison, but Vaska to a convict battalion for three years. And what for? One should judge like a Christian!”
“I have nothing to do with it, I tell you again. Go to the authorities.”
“I have been already! I’ve been to the court; I have tried to send in a petition–they wouldn’t take a petition; I have been to the police captain, and I have been to the examining magistrate, and everyone says, ‘It is not my business!’ Whose business is it, then? But there is no one above you here in the hospital; you do what you like, your honour.”
“You simpleton,” sighed the doctor, “once the jury have found him guilty, not the governor, not even the minister, could do anything, let alone the police captain. It’s no good your trying to do anything!”
“And who judged him, then?”
“The gentlemen of the jury. . . .”
“They weren’t gentlemen, they were our peasants! Andrey Guryev was one; Aloshka Huk was one.”
“Well, I am cold talking to you. . . .”
The doctor waved his hand and walked quickly to his own door. Kirila was on the point of following him, but, seeing the door slam, he stopped.
For ten minutes he stood motionless in the middle of the hospital yard, and without putting on his cap stared at the doctor’s house, then he heaved a deep sigh, slowly scratched himself, and walked towards the gate.
“To whom am I to go?” he muttered as he came out on to the road. “One says it is not his business, another says it is not his business. Whose business is it, then? No, till you grease their hands you will get nothing out of them. The doctor says that, but he keeps looking all the while at my fist to see whether I am going to give him a blue note. Well, brother, I’ll go, if it has to be to the governor.”
Shifting from one foot to the other and continually looking round him in an objectless way, he trudged lazily along the road and was apparently wondering where to go. . . . It was not cold and the snow faintly crunched under his feet. Not more than half a mile in front of him the wretched little district town in which his brother had just been tried lay outstretched on the hill. On the right was the dark prison with its red roof and sentry-boxes at the corners; on the left was the big town copse, now covered with hoar-frost. It was still; only an old man, wearing a woman’s short jacket and a huge cap, was walking ahead, coughing and shouting to a cow which he was driving to the town.
“Good-day, grandfather,” said Kirila, overtaking him.
“Good-day. . . .”
“Are you driving it to the market?”
“No,” the old man answered lazily.
“Are you a townsman?”
They got into conversation; Kirila told him what he had come to the hospital for, and what he had been talking about to the doctor.
“The doctor does not know anything about such matters, that is a sure thing,” the old man said to him as they were both entering the town; “though he is a gentleman, he is only taught to cure by every means, but to give you real advice, or, let us say, write out a petition for you–that he cannot do. There are special authorities to do that. You have been to the justice of the peace and to the police captain–they are no good for your business either.”
“Where am I to go?”
“The permanent member of the rural board is the chief person for peasants’ affairs. Go to him, Mr. Sineokov.”
“The one who is at Zolotovo?”
“Why, yes, at Zolotovo. He is your chief man. If it is anything that has to do with you peasants even the police captain has no authority against him.”
“It’s a long way to go, old man. . . . I dare say it’s twelve miles and may be more.”
“One who needs something will go seventy.”
“That is so. . . . Should I send in a petition to him, or what?”
“You will find out there. If you should have a petition the clerk will write you one quick enough. The permanent member has a clerk.”
After parting from the old man Kirila stood still in the middle of the square, thought a little, and walked back out of the town. He made up his mind to go to Zolotovo.
Five days later, as the doctor was on his way home after seeing his patients, he caught sight of Kirila again in his yard. This time the young peasant was not alone, but with a gaunt, very pale old man who nodded his head without ceasing, like a pendulum, and mumbled with his lips.
“Your honour, I have come again to ask your gracious mercy,” began Kirila. “Here I have come with my father. Be merciful, let Vaska go! The permanent member would not talk to me. He said: ‘Go away!’”
“Your honour,” the old man hissed in his throat, raising his twitching eyebrows, “be merciful! We are poor people, we cannot repay your honour, but if you graciously please, Kiryushka or Vaska can repay you in work. Let them work.”
“We will pay with work,” said Kirila, and he raised his hand above his head as though he would take an oath. “Let him go! They are starving, they are crying day and night, your honour!”
The young peasant bent a rapid glance on his father, pulled him by the sleeve, and both of them, as at the word of command, fell at the doctor’s feet. The latter waved his hand in despair, and, without looking round, walked quickly in at his door
A SOLDIER’S STORY
A First-Hand Account of World War II
by: Walter C. Beglau (1920-1991)
I skipped a week of college the fall of my sophomore year to visit my girlfriend, Carol Erickson, in Watertown, South Dakota, where she had moved the previous summer from Edgeley, North Dakota where we had both lived. We had both been members of Zion Lutheran Church there and though we had not “dated” as very young people do today, we had many good times at Walther League, which was the young people’s group in our church and at other church functions. Her father had been my Sunday School teacher when I was in High School. My oldest sister, Violet, had lived in Carol’s home during her senior year in high school when we lived on a farm outside of Edgeley, North Dakota. We had moved to town when I attended high school. I had done amateur boxing in college and one time was supposed to box the runner up for the state. The person above me did not show up so I was moved up and during the boxing match went over the ropes and my head hit a two by four and I was out for nine hours! My college boxing was over; however in the army I boxed a lot. I guess I should have left boxing up to my youngest brother, Gordon. He, I believe became the champ and stayed there for his ship in the Navy in the South Pacific. After nearly two years in college I decided it was my turn to enlist so I volunteered with the National Guards at Oakes, North Dakota, which was the 188th Field Artillery Battalion. After realignment I was in the 957th Field Artillery Battalion, with which group I went overseas and also became their First Fire Direction Sergeant (five stripes).
I was first stationed in Cheyenne, Wyoming. Then came Pearl Harbor! December 7, l942 — That very day I was to begin a furlough and go to visit my fiancee, Carol Erickson in Watertown, South Dakota. I had sent her a diamond on my birthday that year (the past April 25th). But Pearl Harbor changed those plans and our group was immediately put on the alert and we headed for the state of Washington because it was thought the Japanese might invade our western coast. I was stationed at Camp Murray first and then at Ft. Lewis, Washington. From there I went to Indio, California, where we trained in the desert. Our next move was to Muskogee, Oklahoma. The previous summer when I had been on furlough visiting Carol, we had decided that if her girlfriend’s fiancee or I would get a furlough, Carol or her friend would call to have the other person get an emergency furlough so we could have a double wedding! Well, Carol’s girlfriend’s fiancee got a furlough so Carol immediately called me and I told those in charge that my sister was seriously ill and could I get an emergency furlough! I was given one . . . Had to borrow a friend’s trousers but was South Dakota bound and in one week a double wedding was performed and Carol and I were married! Twenty-one days later I was shipped out of Oklahoma and to the east coast on the way to points unknown.
We didn’t take a straight line from America to England. I understand it was more like a “zig-zag” pattern of travel. Our first realization that we were nearing dangerous areas was when we heard the Germans forecasting to the world that the British Ship, The Brittany, had just been sunk! Well, this, of course was a lie and about this time I was enjoying the huge waves in the front part of the ship, which went up and down several stories during the Atlantic storm! This period of the conflict was when the Germans were determined to raise havoc with the American shipping. I guess I was too green at war to realize that danger was all about me. One of our men began vomiting as he got on the ship and kept this up tell we got to England. Since he was vomiting day and night for about 23 days and nothing was coming up, we call it “the dry heaves”. The poor guy had the color of light grey!
I had a chance to go to London for the first time. My friend, Bob Loken, who was married the same day Carol and I were, did too. We each brought a friend and these two knew each other too so they stayed together and Bob and I stayed together. Bob and I went off to London town. The Germans decided to give us a good welcome with their bombers that night. There were hundreds of bombers. I believe it was one of Germany’s most destructive raids over London town. We decided to go to a U. S. O. dance in London. On the way to this dance a brick building decided to cave in so some scrambling had to be done! Anyway, Bob and I saw how the British gals danced and to our surprise it was like the American girls! Bob and I then went to the hotel where we were to sleep. This hotel (four stories) had been hit! When we got to our small room (about big enough for a bed on each wall) one bomb had come through the floors above us and the nose of the bomb broke the plaster and was looking at my bed. Seeing this I ran to the stairs and went up and jumped on the bomb and started to tear off anything I could — All of a sudden a great big “Lymie” (British soldier) yanked me off! He yelled, “Get off that bomb. It could explode any time You Yanks have to learn this!” Another good lesson learned!
Our fire direction group was always a good target because it was so big. I was standing nearby and I heard a funny noise — like a hissing sound — well, what it was was the bullets hitting the grass nearby. I soon moved to a different place.
Here is a lighter incident — Every once in a while I had to do something different, I guess!
St. Lo, France: It was a beautiful day. We knew we had much work ahead of us this day. I had several targets set up for firing. Another Sergeant (Lyons) and I always argued as to who was going to eat first, so I said, ” You know it is my turn to eat first so here I go!” I went out of our little French barn to the tail gate of a 3/4 ton truck (the kitchen). The planes seemed so low so I walked back into our small barn and announced that I wasn’t really hungry — so I said to Gordon Lyons “It is really your turn to eat first” — so Sgt. Lyons said, “You knew it all the time, Beglau!” Sgt. Lyons goes out to eat. Soon he comes back in and says, “For some reason I’m just not hungry!” I was standing by my maps but for some reason I threw myself to the ground and a bomb landed right by the doorway — only a few feet from me! In fact, three bombs hit our “L” shaped barn. One could hear the moaning and groaning of our men. I had orders before all of this happened to work myself down to A Battery (one of our gun positions) and set up the fire direction center immediately should something happen. There was confusion all over! One of my computer operators was dying with a piece of shrapnel in his throat. This man was choking and dying. I couldn’t lift him out of the doorway. I couldn’t get anyone to help me so as Captain Little came by I grabbed him and said, “Help me lift Pvt. George out of this doorway” which he then helped me do to clear the doorway. I then proceeded walking towards A Battery. There were so many bombs falling it sounded like continuous rumbling. I finally arrived at A Battery and set up another fire direction center.
Incidentally, these were not enemy bombs — they were American! The bombers used the wrong line to start dropping their bombs. This was the day of one of the most loss of life due to bombing — and by American bombers!
Bob Loken, my friend from Watertown, South Dakota was in the 2nd Armored Division. We had met in London and he came to see me near the front line for the second time. Our guns were shooting when Bob arrived. We were shooting at targets just to keep our enemy alert — such targets as chow lines, horse drawn artillery, enemy tanks, etc. — Our guns could shoot quite accurately up to l5 miles. Bang! We received some of our own medicine! Our kitchen was hit! One of my computer men received the purple heart in this building, Jim Baumgardner. He was shaving in the hallway and this tank bullet just knicked his chin!
My duties as a Platoon Sergeant included computing all data and sending it down to the guns, helping with choosing all new gun positions, accomplishing all commands of company officers, communicating all data and changes by phone and radio to gun positions, accomplishing all commands of Battalion officers, and serving as German interpreter for our Headquarters Company and wherever needed.
When we returned home from the war, one young man was again on my ship — you guessed it, the one with the “dry heaves” and he had them again!
The most beautiful woman I ever saw was that big statue in the New York harbor: the Statue of Liberty!
I was discharged in September, l945
THE WIFE
by: Washington Irving (1783-1859)
The following story is reprinted from The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon. Washington Irving. New York: C.S. Van Winkle, 1819.
- The treasures of the deep are not so precious
- As are the conceal d comforts of a man
- Locked up in woman s love. I scent the air
- Of blessings, when I come but near the house.
- What a delicious breath marriage sends forth . . .
- The violet bed s not sweeter.
MIDDLETON
I HAVE often had occasion to remark the fortitude with which women sustain the most overwhelming reverses of fortune. Those disasters which break down the spirit of a man and prostrate him in the dust, seem to call forth all the energies of the softer sex, and give such intrepidity and elevation to their character that at times it approaches to sublimity. Nothing can be more touching than to behold a soft and tender female, who had been all weakness and dependence, and alive to every trivial roughness, while treading the prosperous paths of life, suddenly rising in mental force to be the comforter and support of her husband under misfortune, and abiding with unshrinking firmness the bitterest blasts of adversity.
As the vine which has long twined its graceful foliage about the oak and been lifted by it into sunshine, will, when the hardy plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling round it with its caressing tendrils and bind up its shattered boughs, so is it beautifully ordered by Providence that woman, who is the mere dependent and ornament of man in his happier hours, should be his stay and solace when smitten with sudden calamity, winding herself into the rugged recesses of his nature, tenderly support ing the drooping head, and binding up the broken heart.
I was once congratulating a friend, who had around him a blooming family, knit together in the strongest affection. “I can wish you no better lot,” said he with enthusiasm, ” than to have a wife and children. If you are prosperous, there they are to share your prosperity; if otherwise, there they are to comfort you.” And indeed I have observed that a married man falling into misfortune is more apt to retrieve his situation in the world than a single one; partly because he is more stimulated to exertion by the necessities of the helpless and beloved beings who depend upon him for subsistence; but chiefly because his spirits are soothed and relieved by domestic endearments, and his self-respect kept alive by finding, that though all abroad is darkness and humiliation, yet there is still a little world of love at home, of which he is the monarch. Whereas a single man is apt to run to waste and self-neglect; to fancy himself lonely and abandoned, and his heart to fall to ruin like some deserted mansion, for want of an inhabitant.
These observations call to mind a little domestic story, of which I was once a witness. My intimate friend, Leslie, had married a beautiful and accomplished girl, who had been brought up in the midst of fashionable life. She had, it is true, no fortune, but that of my friend was ample; and he delighted in the anticipation of indulging her in every elegant pursuit, and administering to those delicate tastes and fancies that spread a kind of witchery about the sex. ” Her life,” said he, ” shall be like a fairy tale.”
The very difference in their characters produced an harmonious combination: he was of a romantic and somewhat serious cast; she was all life and gladness. I have often noticed the mute rapture with which he would gaze upon her in company, of which her sprightly powers made her the delight; and how, in the midst of applause, her eye would still turn to him, as if there alone she sought favor and acceptance. When leaning on his arm, her slender form contrasted finely with his tall manly person. The fond confiding air with which she looked up to him seemed to call forth a flush of triumphant pride and cherishing tenderness, as if he doted on his lovely burden for its very helplessness. Never did a couple set forward on the flowery path of early and well-suited marriage with a fairer prospect of felicity.
It was the misfortune of my friend, however, to have embarked his property in large speculations; and he had not been married many months, when, by a succession of sudden disasters, it was swept from him, and he found himself reduced almost to penury. For a time he kept his situation to himself, and went about with a haggard countenance and a breaking heart. His life was but a protracted agony; and what rendered it more insupportable was the necessity of keeping up a smile in the presence of his wife; for he could not bring himself to overwhelm her with the news. She saw, however, with the quick eyes of affection, that all was not well with him. She marked his altered looks and stifled sighs, and was not to be deceived by his sickly and vapid attempts at cheerfulness. She tasked all her sprightly powers and tender blandishments to win him back to happiness; but she only drove the arrow deeper into his soul. The more he saw cause to love her, the more torturing was the thought that he was soon to make her wretched. “A little while,” thought he, “and the smile will vanish from that cheek the song will die away from those lips the lustre of those eyes will be quenched with sorrow; and the happy heart, which now beats lightly in that bosom, will be weighed down like mine by the cares and miseries of the world.”
At length he came to me one day, and related his whole situation in a tone of the deepest despair. When I heard him through I inquired, ” Does your wife know all this?”- At the question he burst into an agony of tears. “For God s sake!” cried he, “if you have any pity on me, don t mention my wife; it is the thought of her that drives me almost to madness!”
“And why not?” said I. “She must know it sooner or later; you cannot keep it long from her, and the intelligence may break upon her in a more startling manner than if imparted by yourself; for the accents of those we love soften the hardest tidings. Besides, you are depriving yourself of the comforts of her sympathy; and not merely that, but also endangering the only bond that can keep hearts together an unreserved community of thought and feeling. She will soon perceive that some thing is secretly preying upon your mind; and true love will not brook reserve; it feels undervalued and outraged, when even the sorrows of those it loves are concealed from it.”
“Oh, but, my friend! to think what a blow I am to give to all her future prospects–how I am to strike her very soul to the earth, by telling her that her husband is a beggar! that she is to forego all the elegancies of life all the pleasures of society to shrink with me into indigence and obscurity! To tell her that I have dragged her down from the sphere in which she might have continued to move in constant brightness–the light of every eye–the admiration of every heart! How can she bear poverty? she has been brought up in all the refinements of opulence. How can she bear neglect? she has been the idol of society. Oh ! it will break her heart it will break her heart !
I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have its flow; for sorrow relieves itself by words. When his paroxysm had subsided, and he had relapsed into moody silence, I resumed the subject gently, and urged him to break his situation at once to his wife. He shook his head mournfully, but positively.
“But how are you to keep it from her? It is necessary she should know it, that you may take the steps proper to the alteration of your circumstances. You must change your style of living–nay,” observing a pang to pass across his countenance, “don t let that afflict you. I am sure you have never placed your happiness in outward show–you have yet friends, warm friends, who will not think the worse of you for being less splendidly lodged: and surely it does not require a palace to be happy with Mary .”
“I could be happy with her,” cried he, convulsively, “in a hovel! I could go down with her into poverty and the dust! I could I could, God bless her! God bless her! ” cried he, bursting into a transport of grief and tenderness.
“And believe me, my friend,” said I, stepping up and grasping him warmly by the hand, “believe me she can be the same with you. Ay, more: it will be a source of pride and triumph to her–it will call forth all the latent energies and fervent sympathies of her nature; for she will rejoice to prove that she loves you for yourself. There is in every true woman’s heart a spark of heavenly fire, which lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity; but which kindles up, and beams and blazes in the dark hour of adversity. No man knows what the wife of his bosom is–no man knows what a ministering angel she is until he has gone with her through the fiery trials of this world.”
There was something in the earnestness of my manner and the figurative style of my language that caught the excited imagination of Leslie. I knew the auditor I had to deal with; and following up the impression I had made, I finished by persuading him to go home and unburden his sad heart to his wife.
I must confess, notwithstanding all I had said, I felt some little solicitude for the result. Who can calculate on the fortitude of one whose life has been a round of pleasures? Her gay spirits might revolt at the dark downward path of low humility suddenly pointed out before her, and might cling to the sunny regions in which they had hitherto revelled. Besides, ruin in fashionable life is accompanied by so many galling mortifications, to which in other ranks it is a stranger. In short, I could not meet Leslie the next morning without trepidation. He had made the disclosure.
“And how did she bear it? “
“Like an angel! It seemed rather to be a relief to her mind, for she threw her arms round my neck, and asked if this was all that had lately made me unhappy. – But, poor girl,” added he, “she cannot realize the change we must undergo. She has no idea of poverty but in the abstract; she has only read of it in poetry, where it is allied to love. She feels as yet no privation; she suffers no loss of accustomed conveniences nor elegancies. When we come practically to experience its sordid cares, its paltry wants, its petty humiliations then will be the real trial.”
“But,” said I, “now that you have got over the severest task, that of breaking it to her, the sooner you let the world into the secret the better. The disclosure may be mortifying; but then it is a single misery, and soon over: whereas you otherwise suffer it in anticipation every hour in the day. It is not poverty so much as pretence, that harasses a ruined man–the struggle between a proud mind and an empty purse–the keeping up a hollow show that must soon come to an end. Have the courage to appear poor and you disarm poverty of its sharpest sting.” On this point I found Leslie perfectly prepared. He had no false pride himself, and as to his wife, she was only anxious to conform to their altered fortunes.
Some days afterwards he called upon me in the evening. He had disposed of his dwelling house, and taken a small cottage in the country, a few miles from town. He had been busied all day in sending out furniture. The new establishment required few articles, and those of the simplest kind. All the splendid furniture of his late residence had been sold, excepting his wife’s harp. That, he said, was too closely associated with the idea of herself; it belonged to the little story of their loves; for some of the sweetest moments of their courtship were those when he had leaned over that instrument, and listened to the melting tones of her voice. I could not but smile at this instance of romantic gallantry in a doting husband.
He was now going out to the cottage, where his wife had been all day superintending its arrangement. My feelings had become strongly interested in the progress of this family story, and as it was a fine evening, I offered to accompany him.
He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and as he walked out, fell into a fit of gloomy musing.
“Poor Mary!” at length broke, with a heavy sigh, from his lips.
“And what of her?” asked I: “has anything happened to her?”
“What,” said he, darting an impatient glance, “is it nothing to be reduced to this paltry situation to be caged in a miserable cottage to be obliged to toil almost in the menial concerns of her wretched habitation?”
“Has she then repined at the change?”
“Repined! she has been nothing but sweetness and good humor. Indeed, she seems in better spirits than I have ever known her; she has been to me all love and tenderness and comfort!”
“Admirable girl!” exclaimed I. “You call yourself poor, my friend; you never were so rich–you never knew the boundless treasures of excellence you possess in that woman.”
“Oh! but, my friend, if this first meeting at the cottage were over, I think I could then be comfortable. But this is her first day of real experience; she has been introduced into a humble dwelling–she has been employed all day in arranging its miserable equipments–she has for the first time known the fatigues of domestic employment she has for the first time looked round her on a home destitute of everything elegant, almost of everything convenient; and may now be sitting down, exhausted and spiritless, brooding over a prospect of future poverty.”
There was a degree of probability in this picture that I could not gainsay, so we walked on in silence.
After turning from the main road up a narrow lane, so thickly shaded with forest trees as to give it a complete air of seclusion, we came in sight of the cottage. It was humble enough in its appearance for the most pastoral poet; and yet it had a pleasing rural look. A wild vine had overrun one end with a profusion of foliage; a few trees threw their branches gracefully over it; and I observed several pots of flowers tastefully disposed about the door, and on the grass-plot in front. A small wicket gate opened upon a footpath that wound through some shrubbery to the door. Just as we approached, we heard the sound of music Leslie grasped my arm; we paused and listened. It was Mary’s voice singing, in a style of the most touching simplicity, a little air of which her husband was peculiarly fond.
I felt Leslie’s hand tremble on my arm. He stepped forward to hear more distinctly. His step made a noise on the gravel walk. A bright beautiful face glanced out at the window and vanished–a light foot step was heard and Mary came tripping forth to meet us: she was in a pretty rural dress of white; a few wild flowers were twisted in her fine hair; a fresh bloom was on her cheek; her whole countenance beamed with smiles–I had never seen her look so lovely.
“My dear George,” cried she, “I am so glad you are come! I have been watching and watching for you; and running down the lane, and looking out for you. I ve set out a table under a beautiful tree behind the cottage; and I’ve been gathering some of the most delicious strawberries, for I know you are fond of them and we have such excellent cream and everything is so sweet and still here. Oh!” said she, putting her arm within his, and looking up brightly in his face, “Oh, we shall be so happy!”
Poor Leslie was overcome. He caught her to his bosom–he folded his arms round her–he kissed her again and again–he could not speak, but the tears gushed into his eyes; and he has often assured me, that though the world has since gone prosperously with him, and his life has indeed been a happy one, yet never has he experienced a moment of more exquisite felicity.
.
.
Sand and Stone
A story tells that two friends were walking through the desert. During some point of the journey they had an argument, and one friend slapped the other one in the face. The one who got slapped was hurt, but without saying anything, wrote in the sand: “TODAY MY BEST FRIEND SLAPPED ME IN THE FACE.”
They kept on walking until they found an oasis, where they decided to take a bath. The one, who had been slapped, got stuck in the mire and started drowning, but the friend saved him. After the friend recovered from the near drowning, he wrote on a stone: “TODAY MY BEST FRIEND SAVED MY LIFE.”
The friend who had slapped and saved his best friend asked him, “After I hurt you, you wrote in the sand and now, you write on a stone, why?”
The other friend replied: “When someone hurts us, we should write it down in sand where winds of forgiveness can erase it away. But, when someone does something good for us, we must engrave it in stone where no wind can ever erase it.”
LEARN TO WRITE YOUR HURTS IN THE SAND, AND TO CARVE YOUR BENEFITS IN STONE
High and Lifted Up
It was a windy day.
The mailman barely made it to the front door. When the door opened, Mrs. Pennington said, “hello”, but, before she had a real chance to say “thank you”, the mail blew out of the mailman’s hands, into the house and the front door slammed in his face. Mrs. Pennington ran to pick up the mail.
“Oh my,” she said.
Tommy was watching the shutters open and then shut, open and then shut.
“Mom,” he said, “may I go outside?”
“Be careful,” she said. “It’s so windy today.”
Tommy crawled down from the window-seat and ran to the door. He opened it with a bang. The wind blew fiercely and snatched the newly recovered mail from Mrs. Pennington’s hands and blew it even further into the house.
“Oh my,” she said again. Tommy ran outside and the door slammed shut.
Outside, yellow, gold, and red leaves were leaping from swaying trees, landing on the roof, jumping off the roof, and then chasing one another down the street in tiny whirlwinds of merriment.
Tommy watched in fascination.
“If I was a leaf, I would fly clear across the world,” Tommy thought and then ran out into the yard among the swirl of colors.
Mrs. Pennington came to the front porch.
“Tommy, I have your jacket. Please put it on.”
However, there was no Tommy in the front yard.
“Tommy?”
Tommy was a leaf. He was blowing down the street with the rest of his play-mates.
A maple leaf came close-by, touched him and moved ahead. Tommy met him shortly, brushed against him, and moved further ahead. They swirled around and around, hit cars and poles, flew up into the air and then down again.
“This is fun,” Tommy thought.
The maple leaf blew in front of him. It was bright red with well-defined veins. The sun-light shone through it giving it a brilliance never before seen by a little boy’s eyes.
“Where do you think we are going?” Tommy asked the leaf.
“Does it matter?” the leaf replied. “Have fun. Life is short.”
“I beg to differ,” an older leaf said suddenly coming beside them. “The journey may be short, but the end is the beginning.”
Tommy pondered this the best a leaf could ponder.
“Where do we end up?”
“If the wind blows you in that direction,” the old leaf said, “you will end up in the city dump.”
“I don’t want that,” Tommy said.
“If you are blown in that direction, you will fly high into the air and see things that no leaf has seen before.”
“Follow me to the city dump,” the maple leaf said. “Most of my friends are there.”
The wind blew Tommy and the maple leaf along. Tommy thought of his choices. He wanted to continue to play.
“Okay,” Tommy said, “I will go with you to the dump.”
The winds shifted and Tommy and the leaf were blown in the direction of the city dump.
The old leaf didn’t follow. He was blown further down the block and suddenly lifted up high into the air.
“Hey,” he called out, “the sights up here. They are spectacular. Come and see.”
Tommy and the maple leaf ignored him.
“I see something. I see the dump.” The old leaf cried out. “I see smoke. Come up here. I see fire.”
“I see nothing,” the maple leaf said.
Tommy saw the fence that surrounded the city dump. He was happy to be with his friend. They would have fun in the dump.
Suddenly, a car pulled up. It was Tommy’s mom. Mrs. Pennington wasn’t about to let her little boy run into the city dump.
“Not so fast,” she said getting out of the car. “You are not allowed to play in there. Don’t you see the smoke?”
Tommy watched the maple leaf blow against the wall and struggle to get over. He ran over to get it but was unable to reach it.
Mrs. Pennington walked over and took the leaf. She put it in her pocket.
“There,” she said, “it will be safe until we get home.”
Tommy smiled, ran to the car and got in. He rolled down the back window and looked up into the sky. He wondered where the old leaf had gone. Perhaps one day he would see what the old leaf had seen – perhaps.
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