Produced by ellinora, David King, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net. (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) [Illustration: She Gave a Quick, Grateful Sob.] Captain Lucy in the Home Sector Captain Lucy In The Home Sector By Aline Havard _Author of_ CAPTAIN LUCY IN FRANCE CAPTAIN LUCY AND LIEUTENANT BOB CAPTAIN LUCYâS FLYING ACE ILLUSTRATED BY Ralph P. Coleman The Penn Publishing Company Philadelphia 1921 Introduction If the young people who read this last story of Lucy Gordonâs army life are disappointed that the end of the war does not bring her home to America they cannot possibly be as disappointed as she herself. She hoped that the war had really finished with the armistice but, like lots of us, she found that there was a great deal left to do that she had not counted upon. Peace was slow in coming, and the American army overseas had its hands as full trying to hasten it as all America on this side had, and still has, in trying to get back to peace-time ways. The tangle of affairs in war-swept Europe is more than Lucy can understand, though she sees a little of that great unrest, and catches a glimpse of its hidden dangers, even in the Home Sector. She does what she can to help, generously, and, though peace is not come and America is still distant, she and Bob and all the Gordon family find happiness together, and look forward with brave confidence to the glorious future of the dear country to which they will before long be homeward bound. Aline Havard. Contents I. Along the Rhine 9 II. Franz and His Family 28 III. Scouting on the Dwina 48 IV. The Silly Ass 69 V. From Russia into Germany 96 VI. The Mystery of the Forest 117 VII. Alan Takes a Hand 137 VIII. For Adelheid 159 IX. Bob and Elizabeth 182 X. A Letter to Franz 204 XI. With Larryâs Aid 226 XII. Unknown To History 249 XIII. Across the Channel 272 XIV. A Midsummer Nightâs Dream 289 Illustrations She Gave a Quick, Grateful Sob _Frontispiece_ He Waved the Flaming Streamers About His Head 65 Larry Stood With Lucy by the Door 127 Lucy Read the Few Lines of German 217 âHere She Is,â Bob Answered 304 CHAPTER I ALONG THE RHINE The Home Sector,âthat was what Larry Eaton called it, a little irony beneath his irrepressible cheerfulness, when he had been ordered to Coblenz with the American Army of Occupation. He had called it so with his eyes on the Stars and Stripes already floating over the generalâs headquarters in the old German city, and after a sidelong glance at Lucy Gordonâs sober face. âItâs the first step on the way home, Lucy,â he said, as the two walked along the grassy banks of the river, the pale December sunlight shining on the water and, at their left, on the low houses at the outskirts of Coblenz. âDonât look so downhearted, old pal.â Lucy smiled and shook off her depression. It was hard ever to be gloomy for long in Larryâs company. The young aviator had something invincibly gay and hopeful in his nature, and a philosophic acceptance of things, until they could be bettered, that often quieted Lucyâs rebellious moments. âIâm not downhearted, Larry,â she protested. âAt least not very. But I did want to go home,ânot after a while, you know, but right away, when the armistice was signed. I know itâs wonderful to be at peace, and to have Father safe and stationed here, but,âI donât care very much about living in Germany.â âDonât you?â asked Larry, laughing. âAs Beattie would say, youâre jolly right.â âAnd thereâs no use thinking weâll all be together,â Lucy persisted. âEven though Father has his quarters here and Mother will finish her work and come, where will Bob be?â âScouting over the Bolshevik lines in the frozen north,â said Larry, a tinge of envy in his voice. âIâd change with him if I could.â âWould you? Oh, Larry, I should think youâd had enough.â âSo we have, but so long as thereâs fighting to be done Iâd rather be there than cooling my heels along the Rhine. And our men arenât having an easy time,âthat poor little force at Archangel.â âOh, I know thereâs lots of work to do!â Lucy exclaimed, suddenly roused from her childish depression, and involuntarily she opened the woolen cape she wore and glanced at her nurseâs aideâs uniform. âIâll stop growling and try to help.â âI donât think youâll have much trouble doing it,â said Larry, smiling down at her, âjudging by what youâve done so far. Only this time youâll have an easier job of it,âno prisoners to set free. You canât imagine a peacefuller spot than that little hospital youâre going to. Itâs lost in the forest, and even the village near it looks half asleep and as though it might tumble any minute down the hillside.â âThe peacefuller it is the better Iâll like it,â said Lucy with something of a sigh. âIâve had enough of war.â Although General Gordon was stationed with the Fifth Army Headquarters in Coblenz, where already, a month after the armistice, American troops had taken possession of houses in the German city and were preparing for their long stay in the occupied territory, Lucy herself was still on duty elsewhere. With the end of the fighting, need for war workers of all sorts had not grown less. Mrs. Gordon could not yet leave her hospital at Cannes, and Lucy had been urged to keep on as nurseâs aide with an insistence that could not but fill her with honest pride and satisfaction. The army surgeons spoke to her of the increasing need of nurses among the convalescents, and Miss Pearse frankly begged Lucy not to abandon her. âYou can go to Coblenz in the spring, Lucy dear,â the young nurse persuaded, when new plans and changes of base occupied every mind in the joyful week after the armistice. âWe have to garrison Coblenz for fifteen years, they say, so your father will probably be there a good while. But perhaps he wonât,â she added, smiling at Lucyâs face, grown disconsolate at her words. âAnyway, while youâre over here I know youâd sooner be helping. Thereâs almost more to do than ever. The men have been rather let down by the warâs end and all the delays following. They donât know what to do with themselves, especially the wounded who are slow in getting well. Weâve got to give them a Christmas that will stifle their homesickness a little. And I canât half work without you, Lucy. Iâm so used to having my little aide to call on. Youâll stay, wonât you?â This was not the sort of persuasion Lucy could resist, when her heart was already in the work that she had learned in such a hard school of suffering and anxiety. She eagerly consented to follow Miss Pearse wherever her father would allow her to go, which ended by being a little convalescent hospital outside the village of Badheim, ten miles west of Coblenz on the banks of the Moselle. Cold breezes from the two rivers swept it, and the air was pure and sweet with the odor of pine. After the shell-torn villages of France, Badheim hospital, as Miss Pearse described it, seemed lovely and inviting to Lucy in its woodland stillness. Yet something, she felt, would keep her from yielding to its peaceful spell: it was a part of Germany. It was unspoiled because France was desolate. She could not forget this long enough to look about her at any German landscape with untroubled eyes. Even now, walking with Larry along the Rhine, she watched the smooth flow of the river and looked across at the vineyard-clad slopes and at the great old fortress towering opposite Coblenz with coolly critical gaze. All at once she turned to Larry, with sudden recollection that this was her last day of freedom and perhaps her last chance in weeks of talking with Bobâs friend, to ask longingly: âLarry, canât you tell me anything more of what Bob is doing at Archangel? He doesnât write much about his work, and the letters are so slow. I know itâs hard up there. And they donât get ahead. The Bolsheviki are strong.â âOur force is hardly of a size to accomplish much. It ought to be enough men or none,â declared Larry, with the troubled, puzzled look that sometimes came over his face, making him look extraordinarily sober and thoughtful by contrast with his usual cool cheerfulness. âBut donât worry too much about Bob,â he added, putting aside the doubts which had made him speak so earnestly. âHeâs doing scouting work. Heâs far safer than he was on the German front. The cold is the disagreeable part.â âI know. Iâve knitted him everything I thought he could pile on. He doesnât say much about it, but I looked up Archangel on the map and, Larry, itâs near the North Pole.â âNot quite, but I wonât say itâs a pleasant climate. Perhaps they wonât stay there much longer.â âWell, I thought on Armistice Day that it was over, really over,âthe war, I mean. But here it seems to be tailing out in every direction.â âYes, it has rather a nasty way of refusing to be finished,â Larry agreed, looking around him as he spoke at the passers-by, for they were now re-entering the town. âTo judge by their manner these Boches seem to think itâs quite over and that weâre friends again. Yet some of them, Iâm sure, are very far from feeling that way.â âWhat do you really think?â asked Lucy curiously. âThey smile at us and are eager to sell things. But Larry, how can they feel friendly?â âI canât fathom them,â said Larry, not much given to analyzing character at any time. âMost of them seem spiritless enough, but Iâve seen a few bitter looks, all the same, and some eyes that shone with hate at sight of us. I donât trust one of them.â âOh, theyâll have to take it out in hating us,â said Lucy easily. âThey canât do any worse now.â Lucy had had enough of plotting and conspiracy. She was determined to put German treachery out of her mind and live in confident simplicity once more. âFed-up with the war, eh, Lucy?â Captain Beattie had remarked, when Lucy and the young Britisher met by chance in Cantigny soon after the armistice. âWell, you know, I rather am myself. Letâs cross the Channel and leave it all behind.â And that was what Lucy longed to do, putting the Atlantic in place of the Channel, in spite of trying to persuade herself of the contrary after Miss Pearseâs urging. All through the war she had looked forward to that day, the fighting ended, that would see the Gordon family on board the first ship bound for America. Even adventurous spirits have their homesick moments. Foreign sights and sounds had, while this mood lasted, lost their charm for her. She looked around her now at the old gabled houses of Coblenz, at the Germans passing, who paused to stare with blank curiosity at the Americans, already a familiar part of the cityâs inhabitants, and she felt no sympathy with her surroundings. âIâm going to bury myself in that forest and work so hard at the hospital that Iâll forget Iâm in Germany,â she told Larry, as they neared the house commandeered for General Gordonâs quarters. âYou might come out and see me once in a while, though, Larry, and tell me how peace is getting on.â âIâll be out every year or two and bring you the news,â Larry promised. âMaybe Iâll feel the need of a little rest cure myself. Iâm pretty well exhausted.â Lucy laughed as she met the blue twinkling eyes above his tanned cheeks. An orderly opened the house door as Larry held out his hand in good-bye. The following day Lucy joined Miss Pearse and half a dozen other Red Cross workers to travel by motor-lorry to Badheim. The road ran along the Moselle, a lovely woodland countryside which went far toward bringing back Lucyâs lost serenity. âI love the country, donât you, Miss Pearse?â she said, breathing deep breaths of the piney air. âI should think sick men would get well quickly here.â âI hope they will,â the young nurse responded. âBut Iâm sure theyâd get well quicker if these woods were in Maine or in Michigan,âanywhere at home.â Her voice betrayed her and Lucy looked at her friend with a quick thrill of sympathy. Miss Pearse was as homesick as she herself, in spite of her stoic calm. And, meeting the glance of an orderly who sat on a case of supplies in one corner of the lorry, Lucy read the same longing in his eyes even before he exclaimed almost involuntarily, âOr not even woods or rivers, Miss. Just the docks at Hoboken would look good enough to me.â The little village of Badheim was perched upon a hillside, the road winding at its foot. The lorry turned sharply away from the Moselle to begin a long climb up a heavily wooded slope. The forest now closed in on both sides,âmajestic oaks, mixed with pines and hemlocks which sang and murmured as the river breeze swept over them. Rabbits darted across the road and squirrels chattered in the overhanging branches. All at once the hospital appeared, a big frame building in a clearing near the top of the hill, its roof in spreading gables, like a Swiss chalet, and the Stars and Stripes floating over it. Behind it were half a dozen cottages for the staff. The whole had a weather-beaten look, for it had stood there more than fifty years, and an air of solitude enveloped it, as though it were much further removed from town and village than it really was. Lucy decided in one glance that it needed sunlight and cheerful voices to keep from being a gloomy spot where the murmur of the swaying pines would change to sighs of loneliness. In fact the convalescent soldiers seated on the verandas or strolling over the grassy clearing and in the borders of the woodland looked sober and purposeless, their idle steps leading vaguely from one spot to the other, without any spur of hopeful energy. Lucy understood at last Miss Pearseâs eloquent persuasions, and seeing how sorely help was needed here, she forgot her own repinings and was herself again. Miss Pearse and Lucy installed themselves in a room in one of the cottages beside the hospital,âa sort of shed built of heavy unpainted planks, with sloping roof and leaded window-panes. A stove fed with pine-boughs warmed the drafty interior somewhat from the December cold. While the two newcomers were unpacking and settling themselves in their narrow quarters the hospitalâs head nurse came in and talked to them, dropping down on the nearest chair to do so; for she was tired and glad of a momentâs rest. âYou will think there is terrible confusion here, for we are all at loose ends,â she told them. âWe havenât enough nurses nor orderlies, and nothing is in smooth running order. I hope you wonât mind, for a few weeks, not having a regular routine but doing whatever presents itself.â âThat will just suit me,â remarked Lucy, brushing her corn-colored hair before the little mirror. âSend me on all the errands you can think of, Miss Webster.â The head nurse laughed, looking kindly at Lucyâs pretty face, lighted by the smile that her unaffectedness made very attractive. âIâll find plenty for you to do, donât worry,â she said confidently. âWhen nothing else turns up, go about among the convalescents and talk to them of home.â âAre there bad cases here? What sort, mostly?â Miss Pearse asked. âSome are men who have been gassed and their lungs are injured. Those are the discouraged ones who think they can never get well. Then we have a good many with broken limbs slowly mending, and some recovering from pneumonia and trench fever. There are about eighty in all, and most of them getting on splendidly, if they would only forget their homesickness and that they must spend Christmas in Germany.â âU-um, but itâs not so easy to forget that,â murmured Lucy, understandingly. âAnd, though of course this hospital has fine air and all that, itâs not a very cheerful place, do you think? With all these German woods shutting it in?â âGerman woods are just like any other woods, Lucy,â said Miss Pearse laughing. âDonât be making trouble. Weâre ready now, Miss Webster.â The hospital wards were nearly empty for a part of the day, during which almost all the patients got up and sat on the verandas, or were wheeled about if they could not walk. Lucy was surprised to see a good number of French soldiers scattered among the Americans, and looking a good deal more cheerful than her own countrymen, as though they knew that their return home could not be much longer postponed. Miss Webster explained to her: âThese Frenchmen were in need of special treatmentâwe have mineral baths here. Or else they were in American hospitals and were brought along with other convalescents. They will almost all go before Christmas.â Lucy was put to work in the diet kitchen, which she left at lunch time to carry trays to those of the convalescents whose capricious appetites needed special encouragement. The trays were numbered and so were the chairs in which the invalids reclined, but as Lucy, carrying a tray holding chicken broth and biscuits and numbered forty-five, approached the chair bearing that number, the occupant got up and, walking slowly down the veranda steps, strolled off toward the edge of the clearing. The man was a French officer, a blond of tall and powerful build, though now his blue uniform hung loosely on his shrunken frame and his slow steps were a trifle uncertain. Lucy put down the tray and ran after him, calling out, â_Quarante-cinq! Quarante-cinq!_â Then as she neared him and saw the insignia on his uniform she changed her form of address to, â_Monsieur le capitaine! Attendez, sâil vous plait?_â The Frenchman turned around and seeing Lucy pointing with expressive gesture to the veranda where the soup was cooling on the deserted chair he smiled and took off his cap, saying with quick apology, â_Pardon, Mademoiselle_.â Then changing into good English he continued, âI am sorry to have made you follow me. Thank you very much.â Lucy walked beside him in silence, stealing glances at his face in puzzled amazement. Where had she seen that face before? It was not really familiar, yet she knew beyond a doubt that she had seen the man and spoken to him and, more than that, at a moment of great fear and anxiety. Almost a shiver caught her now at the dim remembrance. Where had it been? âYou have just arrived here, Mademoiselle?â the officer inquired, turning pleasantly toward her. All at once Lucy knew. She saw in her mindâs eye the de la Toursâ little house in ChÃ¢teau-Plessis, the German soldier entering the dining-room and Michelleâs cry of joy and terror. âCaptain de la Tour!â she exclaimed in vivid recollection, and as the officer looked at her in surprise she went eagerly on, âYou donât remember me? Of course notâhow could you? Iâm Michelleâs friend, Lucy Gordon. I was in your motherâs house when you came into ChÃ¢teau-Plessis as a spy. For a moment I couldnât remember. Oh, tell me, how is Michelle?â The Frenchman looked at her closely, his blue eyes shining with pleasure. âI remember you now, Mademoiselle! And that dayâwill I ever forget it! I am happy to see you, my sisterâs very dear friend.â He held out his hand as he spokeâa thin, bony hand from which fever had taken the strength and firmness. âCan you stay a moment? I will give you good news of Michelle.â âA moment, yes. But donât let your soup get cold,â said Lucy, handing him the little tray as he sank down on his chair again, breathing hard. âAnd your motherâis she well, too?â âNot very well, but nevertheless she thinks more of her absent son than of her own health. I am not able to go home, they say, and _Maman_ fears I shall be lonely at this season, in spite of my kind American friends. She and Michelle are coming to Badheim for the NoÃ«l.â At this Lucy was struck so speechless with delight there was a pause before she could put into words her joyful amazement. âComing here? Oh, Captain de la Tour, isnât it good news? I canât tell youâyou canât guess how glad I am!â Lucyâs hazel eyes sparkled with the words and her whole face lighted up. Perhaps never until that moment had she realized the place Michelle held in her heart. Now at this lucky chance to review in peace and security the friendship woven among such sad and peril-haunted days she felt a thrill of happiness that raised her spirits almost to their old-time level. Captain de la Tour watched her with quick sympathy, his pale lips touched for an instant by the brief, radiant smile which could so strikingly change both his and Michelleâs faces from their thoughtful gravity. Lucy longed to ask all about her friend, of whom she had caught so short a glimpse on the eleventh of November, but she had not another moment to spare. âWhen will they come?â she lingered to ask. âThis week, I think. I am waiting every day to hear,â said Captain de la Tour, his voice filled with eager hope. âI have not seen them since the war ended. I was shot through the lungs the day of the armistice.â When the luncheon hour was over Miss Pearse said to Lucy, âThis is a good chance to do what Miss Webster asked me to find time for. She wants us to go with the orderlies to the spring in the forest and see to the bottling of the water. It wonât take long.â Lucy was thinking so much about all she would have to tell Michelle that she hardly noticed what Miss Pearse said, but followed her in obedient silence across the clearing behind the hospital and into the woodland. In front of them went two Hospital Corps men drawing hand-carts filled with empty bottles. There was no snow yet on the ground and, beneath the trees, it was carpeted with moss and pine needles so that footsteps were hushed and the sigh of the branches overhead made so deep and steady a murmur that the forest seemed all at once to have an atmosphere of its own. A great peace pervaded it so that even the soldiers spoke involuntarily in low tones, and glanced about them with a kind of solemnity at the tall trunks of the firs and hemlocks, with here and there an oak spreading its wide, bare branches. The sunlight shone down with a golden gleam into the dim greenness of forest aisles stretching endlessly on every side. Lucy walked on in enchanted silence. She thought she had never known anything more lovely than this murmurous stillness, the soft carpet beneath her feet, the great evergreen trees closing in around her and the cold, pine-laden air against her face. The mysterious scamper of shy woodland bird and beast delighted her. She would not have guessed that they had gone a hundred yards when, after half a mileâs walk, they came out suddenly into another big clearing, near the center of which stood a little cottage built of unplaned logs, its roof covered with pine boughs and smoke rising from its earthen chimney. âIt looks like a fairy story,â said Lucy softly, remembering Elizabethâs old forest tales. The soldiers led the way along the clearingâs edge for a hundred yards and then reÃ«ntered the forest. Almost at once the sound of water tumbling over stones broke the stillness and a little spring came into view, a bubbling basin with moss-lined, rocky bottom, and beside it a tiny rustic shed, its door fastened with a rusty padlock. âThat little shed held the bottling machine the Germans used,â Miss Pearse explained to Lucy as the men began to unload their carts, âbut it got out of order toward the end of the war, so for a few weeks we shall have to bottle by hand. We are supposed to supervise but itâs quicker work if we help.â All four knelt down on the mossy earth and began dipping up the spring water with ladles and pouring it through funnels into the big water-bottles. The spring bubbled up unceasingly, so crystal clear that no disturbance of the water could keep the rocky bottom from showing always in trembling outline. âThis is a mineral spring,â said Miss Pearse, setting aside a filled bottle which looked empty in its clearness. âThe water is as wonderful as this forest air. Hello, whoâs this?â A little girl five or six years old had crept silently up to the spring and was standing with big blue eyes fixed on the Americans. Her flaxen braids hung over her faded print dress, a ragged red shawl was clutched about her and her feet were thrust into clumsy sabots above which her stockings were slipping down. An uncertain smile that began to dimple her pink cheeks broadened as she met Lucyâs friendly eyes. â_Guten tag_,â she murmured shyly. And â_Guten tag_,â repeated a manâs voice as the fir branches were brushed aside. A big German, close to middle age, blond and deeply sunburned, ax in hand, stood behind the child, his keen eyes fixed on the workers, a touch of sourness about his lips, though he spoke pleasantly enough. Lucy looked up at him and the enchantment of the great old forest, of the bubbling spring and the soft-footed little girl vanished in that one glance. She was back again in Germany. CHAPTER II FRANZ AND HIS FAMILY Christmas, 1918, and peace on the Western Front. That was the thought in everyoneâs mind at the little Badheim hospitalâthat for the first time since 1914 the guns were silent on Christmas Day. But Lucyâs happiness was not what she had hoped for, though she seemed as gay as the others as she helped decorate the bare hospital halls with evergreen forest boughs, dark against the bright background of Allied flags. Michelle guessed her secret longing, nevertheless, with the quick sympathy which made the French girl so readily understand the joys and sorrows of those she loved. âIt is not the same for you as for meâthis NoÃ«l,â she said to Lucy as they worked together to make the long tables cheerful for the homesick soldiersâ eyes, âfor you have not your brother back.â âIt isnât only that I miss him, Michelle,â exclaimed Lucy, glad to put her troubled thoughts into words for Michelleâs friendly ear, âitâs that heâs still in danger. They say he is only scouting over the Bolshevik lines, but you know what that means. The enemy is thereâI canât help worrying.â âI know you cannot,â agreed Michelle, without offering useless consolation. âIt is very hard. I thought _Maman_ and I were of all the most unlucky when Armand was shot on the day of _lâarmistice_, but now he is almost well and we have no more to fear.â So much and so deeply had Michelle lived and suffered in the past four years that she did not even think to bewail the loss of home and fortune that the war had brought. The Germans were defeated and her mother and Armand spared. That seemed just now the granting of all she had to wish for. Lucy had found herself more than once watching her friendâs face in the few days since Michelle and her mother arrived at Badheim. On Armistice Day she had realized that Michelle could not respond to the joyful news with any abandon of light-heartedness. The bitter suffering of the long years of war had made the little French girl grow up before her time. Even now, with her blackest cares behind her, with hope and confidence in the future, Michelleâs lovely face was still serious in repose, and her dark blue eyes held a lingering sad watchfulness that did not suit her sixteen years. Only now and then, when the two friends ran into the forest to collect the fir boughs, when Michelleâs black hair was loosened about her neck and her radiant smile chased away all memories from the happy present, did Lucy catch a glimpse of that careless gayety which the war had stolen from her. In spite of Lucyâs troubled thoughts of Bob she found unlimited pleasure and consolation in Michelleâs company. Together the two worked as they had worked in the old days at ChÃ¢teau-Plessis, to brighten the wounded menâs gloom. Only now they were among friends, with no sharp-eyed German surgeons on the watch. This thought somehow made Lucy almost resigned to being in Germany. âWe have to be here, instead of at home, but at any rate we can do what we please. Itâs we who give the orders now,â she said to Michelle the morning of Christmas Day. A German farmer from beyond Badheim village was unloading supplies from his cart beside the hospital steps, and some of the convalescents with awakening interest were gathered around. âYes, the German trees canât take us prisoner,â said Michelle with whimsical gravity, looking up at the great sighing pines closing in around them. âThey are lovelyâthese forest trees. It was not the Germans, but God who planted them.â Lucy felt again a touch of the enchantment that had caught her the first day she had entered the forest stillness. But at thought of the cottage in the clearingânow familiar groundâthe face of the German woodcutter came before her once more to spoil the beauty. And yet there was nothing about the man, silent or quietly civil with the hospital workers, to make so definite an impression on her mind. She spoke her thoughts aloud. âI can never see that Franz without remembering all the hatefulness of every German Iâve known in the past two years. While heâs about I canât forget I am in Germany.â âHe does not forget it either,â was Michelleâs reply. âOh, I donât think he bears us any grudge, Miss. Heâs pleasant enough when we walk to the spring or the clearing,â remarked a young convalescent soldier sitting on the steps. âHeâs old and soured by a hard life. Poor, too, to judge by the rags the kids wear.â Michelle looked up at the soldierâs face, a boyish one, with pale cheeks rounding out with returning health and frank, merry gray eyes. âFranz has not forgiven,â she said again. âDonât you see he has not?â The young soldier did not much care one way or the other. âMaybe youâre right,â he agreed peaceably. âWeâre going to have _some_ dinner,â he added, following with his eyes the packages being carried toward the kitchen. âGee, itâs great to be hungry again.â Christmas dinner was more of a success than anyone had hoped for. The convalescents could not help responding to such kind efforts, and in doing so they forgot their homesickness and began to appreciate their real good-fortune. Then, returning strength gave a good share of them hearty appetites, which found a reasonable number of German or American good things for their satisfaction. And the bright flags, the soft green of the fir branches, and the red berries which Lucy and Michelle had searched for in the forest, made the dining-room and tables gay and almost homelike to the young Americans gathered there. Some were still in wheeled chairs, with hollow cheeks and no interest in the food before them, but even these cheered up a little as talk and laughter grew louder, as songs of home were sung and toasts offered with cheers or laughter. Larry Eaton was there, at Lucyâs invitation, and he, Madame de la Tour, Armand, Michelle and Lucy sat together at one end of a table. Larry was in wonderful spirits, or else he tried with all his kind heart to make Lucy forget Bobâs absence. Madame de la Tour, in the midst of the noisy, crowded roomful, said little. Her eyes were upon her son as he smiled and talked and tried to coax his feeble appetite for her pleasure. All at once it seemed to Lucy that the Christmas gayety had more of the pathetic than the merry about it, and that the toasts drunk were bantering and would-be light-hearted ones, because reminders of home brought some of those weak, white-faced convalescents close to tears. After it was all over and the men scattered, some wheeled away to rest after too much excitement, Lucy, Michelle, Armand and Larry walked into the forest, where the sinking sun had begun to send its slanting beams. âIâd like to come here to get well,â remarked Larry, sniffing the piney air. As he spoke a cold wind, rising with the approach of sunset, swept through the trees and made the girls draw their capes closer. Larry added thoughtfully, âI mean Iâd like it here nowâthe war over and all. Itâs not a place to come to as a German prisoner. Rather spooky, if you were inclined to be down on your luck.â âDo you find it that way too, Larry?â cried Lucy, delighted to hear her own thoughts put into words. âIâve felt that so often about this forest in the two weeks Iâve been here. Have you ever read silly books where, when the hero feels desperate about anything, a thunder-storm comes up to give him a background? Well, this forest never changes, yet however I feel, it makes me feel more so.â âSay it once more, please,â said Larry grinning, while Armand turned amused eyes on Lucyâs serious face. âI canât say it properly,â she protested, flushing a little. âI mean that the forest makes me feel everything more deeply. If Iâm happy when I come into it, it looks beautiful and I am twice as happy, but if I come here anxious, not having had a word from Bob in days, itâs gloomy and unfriendly, so that I donât stay any longer than I must.â âI understand very well,â said Michelle in her pretty, quiet voice. âIt is that here, beneath the trees, one can think very clearly, and when the thoughts are sad onesâââ âYouâd rather they were interrupted,â put in Larry, pulling off bits of pine-bark to throw at two squirrels chattering on a limb overhead. âSeems to me weâre getting dismal for Christmas Day. Whose idea was this, anyway, to make a call on the Boches?â âMichelleâs and mine,â said Lucy. âWe promised Franzâ children some fruit and candy. Poor things, they have hardly anything. Franz is awfully poor, or else he is a perfect pig.â âThe childrenâthey look cold, Captain Eaton,â added Michelle. âDo you know if all the peasants around Coblenz are very poor?â âSome are. Of course many suffered in the war, though nothing in comparison to the French. But thereâs a real scarcity of food and clothing here now.â âThey have plenty of wood to burn,â said Lucy. âBut when the children run out-of-doors they shiver in those rags they wear.â âThe _maman_ looks sad and hopeless. She seems not at all to care,â remarked Michelle wonderingly. âThe father is your special friend, isnât he, Lucy?â asked Larry, his eyes twinkling. âYes, heâs my favorite,â she agreed, refusing to be teased. âHe makes me think of the good old days last year in ChÃ¢teau-Plessis.â âTruly, he is not a _joli type_,â said Armand. âThere is something hard about his eyes and smile.â âDoes he act sulky with the hospital staff?â asked Larry. âOh, no,â said Lucy. âHe supplies us with wood. Probably he canât help looking the way he does. Heâs just German.â âThis must be the son and heir,â said Larry. A little boy, just able to run alone, with a yellow thatch of hair above his eager face, and arms outstretched to help his stumbling feet, burst through the trees and made for Lucy, panting, â_Guten abend, FrÃ¤ulein! FrÃ¶hliche Weihnacht!_â âMerry Christmas yourself, _mein Herr_,â Larry responded, stooping to pick up the little German as he tripped and fell over a root in his excitement. âBetter look where youâre going.â âHurt yourself, Freidrich?â asked Lucy in German, while Michelle brushed pine-needles from the childâs hair. â_Nein_,â he answered, still panting, and, rising on tiptoe, tried to peep into the basket that Larry carried, not quite daring to approach the young officer, though burning curiosity was fast overcoming his fear. The next moment two more children came running from the clearing, the little girl whom Lucy had first seen at the spring, and a boy about a year older than Freidrich. All three wore torn cotton clothing over which ragged coats or shawls were held together by their cold, bare fingers. Their flaxen heads were uncovered and their stockings slipped down over wooden shoes. â_Ãa mâÃ©tonne_,â said Michelle, shaking her head. âThe German peasants are very careful with their children, as I remember them.â âPerhaps they canât get clothes,â suggested Larry. âWool is terribly high now in Germany. They are rather nice-looking kids.â âYes, a little above the peasant class,â remarked Armand, patting the shoulder of the four-year-old boy, Freidrichâs brother, who walked beside the French officer, casting eager, curious glances up at him. âWhat is your name, little one?â he asked in German. The child hung his head in silence, but the little girl, her bright eyes turned for a moment from the basket, the center of all their hopes, answered promptly: âHis name is Wilhelm, Herr Officer, and my name is Adelheid. And our fatherâs name is Franz Kraft. I am seven years old.â She ended with a smile and a bobbing curtsey. Larry said, in a peculiar German something like Bobâs, âThank you, my little maiden.â He was about to ask her if the cottage which now appeared in sight was her home, but his German failing him, he asked it instead of Lucy in English, remarking, âHe must do quite a businessâthis Franz. He has enough wood cut already to last the hospital all winter.â The woodcutter had heaped his fagots in neat piles over about one-half of the clearing, which covered perhaps two acres. âHe has men come to help him cut,â Lucy explained. âThey cart the wood away to towns and villages near here. Heâs quite a well-known character, to judge by the visitors he has. If heâs popular, I donât care for German taste.â âNow, FrÃ¤ulein? Can we see now?â begged Adelheid, dancing up and down in her impatience. âYes, right now,â consented Lucy, sitting down on a pine stump in front of the cottage and taking the basket from Larry. As she uncovered it a gasp of delight rose from three little throats, and Lucy felt Freidrichâs and Wilhelmâs panting breaths against her face, as they bent toward her in irresistible excitement. â_Pauvres petits_,â murmured Michelle, touching Adelheidâs thin little shoulder. There was nothing in the basket but fruit and Red Cross candy, with some bits of tinsel saved from the tree that had ornamented the ward where the men lay who were too sick to attend the Christmas dinner. But as Lucy distributed the basketâs contents the childrenâs cheeks flushed pink and their eyes shone as they stammered, â_Danke, gnÃ¤dige FrÃ¤ulein, danke_.â A step sounded on the threshold and Adelheid held up her full hands to cry joyfully, âLook, Papachen, look!â Franzâ big, lean frame filled the doorway, his face heated from woodland labors. With a soiled red handkerchief he began, at sight of his visitors, to brush bark and dirt from his shabby clothing. His expression was somewhat grim as he glanced at the foreigners; but at the childrenâs insistence, after one quick, frowning contraction of his heavy brows, his sour lips curved in something like a smile. He stroked Adelheidâs head, having made the visitors before his threshold an awkward bow, and, to their astonishment, addressed them in FrenchâGerman French, remarkable in sound and accent: â_Ponjour, Messieurs et Mestemoiselles. Merci peaucoup. Foulez-fous entrer tans ma bauvre maison?_â Michelle was the first to decipher this utterance. She smiled faintly and shook her head. âWe came only to see the children,â she explained, also in French. Franzâ keen eyes had left her face to scrutinize the two officers who stood behind her, though as soon as their glance met his he shifted his gaze to the children and summoned his difficult smile once more. âLetâs go,â said Lucy, looking up from where she sat holding Freidrich, and trying to persuade him not to cram all his candy into his mouth at once. Footsteps sounded again inside the cottage and a woman appeared behind Franz, and, peering out over his shoulder, nodded to Lucy with a smile as cheerless as her husbandâs, but tired and spiritless rather than sullen. She was young, but sad and anxious looking. Her light brown hair was twisted up anyhow on her head, and the sleeves of her faded calico were rolled above her elbows. âThank you, kind FrÃ¤ulein,â she said, amiably enough. âThe little ones are grateful. Good-day to your young friend, and to each Herr Officer.â With this greeting she shuffled back into the cottage, without a word to her husband, who was staring at the ground now, forgetting his attempts at civility. âGood-afternoon,â said Lucy, getting up, still holding little Freidrichâs hand. The others nodded to the German as they turned back toward the forest, the children tagging at their heels. âWe will walk a little way with you, shall we?â asked Adelheid, dancing ahead. She had stuck the bits of tinsel that fell to her share into her flaxen braids, and looked, as she flitted about among the great tree-trunks, like a child come to life out of a German fairy tale. âHave you lived here always, Adelheid?â asked Larry, smiling at her. Adelheidâs bright eyes fixed his as for a second she puzzled over his bad German; then, understanding, she said quickly, âOh, no, Herr Officer. But we have lived here a good while. Let me think. Well, I canât remember, but we came here when there was fighting. Papachen left off being a soldier to bring us here. He said it was better soâthen he need not fight any more. But our mother was not pleased.â âNeed not fight any more because he became a woodcutter?â asked Larry doubtfully. âI donât know, _mein Herr_. That was what he said. He was sad and the mother was sad. We were poor, because we had no longer the farm.â âYou used to have a farm?â âYesâa fine one, with pigs and a field. But the fighting came, and they took all that place.â âWho took it?â Larry persisted. Adelheid glanced shyly at Armandâs face, then, almost whispering, explained to Larry, âIt was the French. They said it all belonged to them. They let us stay where we were, but soon there was a battle and everyone had to run away.â âWhat was the place called?â asked Michelle with sudden understanding. âIt was the Reichsland, FrÃ¤ulein,â said Adelheid, proud of her attentive audience. âThey sometimes talked French there.â âAlsace-Lorraine!â exclaimed Armand. âThatâs where he learned French,â said Larry. âI thought it was strange in a German peasant.â âHe is not a peasant,â insisted Armand. âHe is just what the child saysâa farmer. When the fighting in Alsace-Lorraine commenced his land was ruined, and he was too much leagued with the Germans to face the French occupation.â âBut I wonder why the Boches let him leave the army,â Larry pondered. âWas your father wounded, Adelheid?â he asked. âNo, _mein Herr_, I donât remember it.â âAdelheid!â Through the forest stillness Franzâ voice sounded harshly. â_Komm hier schnell_, Adelheid!â â_Ja, ja!_â responded the little girl, shouting. With a skip, she seized her brothers by the hand, and, turning for a smiling farewell and a âcome soon again,â ran back toward the clearing, the little boys stumbling along at her side. âPerhaps Papachen suspected that we were hearing the family history,â surmised Larry, watching the children disappear among the firs. âIf he has any secrets to hide he had better keep Adelheid locked up.â âIsnât she a cunning little girl?â said Lucy. âI wish they werenât Germans. I donât know what is the matter with their mother. I suppose sheâs poor and worried.â âProbably sheâs thinking of the farm they lost,â said Larry. Then, putting Franz and his family out of his mind as they began mounting the slope which showed the approach of the hospital clearing, âCanât you get a holiday and come to Coblenz, Lucy? Iâm lonely without you or Bob. Iâm losing my morale.â All three of the others laughed at his gloomy voice, and Larry remarked with smouldering resentment, âItâs always that way when I get the blues. Iâm laughed at. Iâm considered a light-hearted soldier, and if Iâm anything else I get no sympathy.â âYes you do, Larryâplenty from me,â Lucy protested. âBut, you see, I count on you a lot myself, so I have to laugh at the idea of your getting low in your mind, or Iâd feel twice as lost as I do alone.â âIs that plain to you, Captain Eaton?â asked Armand, amused, and Larry, smiling in spite of himself, said more cheerfully: âThatâs a real Lucy explanation. Well, Iâll have to carry on in the Home Sector and play up to my part.â âOther people have had to,â said Lucy, glancing at Michelle. She could not yet look into her friendâs face without remembering with a warm thrill of admiration the almost hopeless days of captivity when Michelleâs splendid courage and cheerfulness had spurred her to equal fortitude. âIâm afraid I donât quite stand on my own legs when trouble comes,â she added, with some irrelevance for those who could not follow her thoughts. âI always need someone to keep me going.â âI donât know. Youâve stood up pretty well, I think,â said Larry, more eager in her defense than in his own. âFor instance, the time youâââ âEscaped from ChÃ¢teau-Plessis,â broke in Michelle, with equal enthusiasm. âThere was not anyone to push you to the lines of the _AlliÃ©s_, or to shut the Germansâ eyes.â âAnd how about the night you flew with me into Germany?â persisted Larry. âI didnât encourage you then, thatâs sure.â âI donât mean all that,â Lucy interposed, flushing warmly at having provoked this unexpected praise. âAnyone can be brave once in a while. With me itâs more desperation than courage. If ever you hear that Iâve done anything you think took nerve, you may know I did it because something else frightened me still more.â âYou canât take your motives to pieces that way,â objected Larry, never good at argument. âYou were brave, and thatâs all there was to it.â âBut the sort of bravery that I admire,â Lucy continued earnestly, âis the sort that lasts. I was more hopeless after five weeks at ChÃ¢teau-Plessis than Michelle after four years. I couldnât have endured what she did.â âOh, perhaps I saw fear and sorrow so often in those years I came to know well their faces and did not mind them,â said Michelle, trying to speak lightly. âMy courage was not very greatâa prisoner has the same.â She slipped her hand through Lucyâs arm as she spoke. âDo not think I did not sometimes borrow strength from you, _mon amie_.â âBoth kinds of courage are needed,â said Armand, thoughtfully. âIt took both to win the war.â âYou ought to know,â said Lucy to herself, smiling as she looked up at the Frenchmanâs thin face, above his wasted frame. She thought of the times he had risked inglorious death as a spy in his countryâs service. âWe have a visitor,â said Michelle, as they left the forest and began to ascend the clearing behind the hospital. She pointed to a gray army motor-car standing in the road. At the same moment Larry exclaimed, âItâs General Gordonâs car. Your father has come, Lucy.â âYes, he promised to, as soon as the Christmas celebrations were over in Coblenz.â Lucy quickened her pace and in a minute saw her father coming down the veranda steps to meet her. âMerry Christmas, Father! Iâm so glad to see you!â she cried, hugging him. âYou donât look very gay,â she added, searching his face with her clear eyes. âFather, are you homesick, too?â âIâm all right, little daughter,â replied General Gordon, smiling, though his face did not
{'title': 'Captain Lucy in the Home Sector by Aline Havard', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}