Luck Charm

Auckland Star, Volume LXIX, Issue 226, 24 September 1938, Page 15 (Supplement)

Luck Charm

Short Short Story

DAIN fell upon the Arc de IV Triomphe. Cold, drizzling rain. It fell unheeded by the 20 old women who marched in procession, their eyes fixed sombrely on the everlasting flame which leaped above the Unknown Soldier's grave. Twenty Gold Star mothers. All from south of the Mason and Dixon line, with skins varying in hue from lightest yellow to sootiest black.

Mainly, the oldest, shulTVd at the head of the procession. Hers was the privilege to lay the great wreath upon the shrine. Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle, sounded the shining black rubber* into which Mandy's calloused feet were llirust. "l)e < iov'ment" had bought her Hie rubbers. It had bought her shoes, too. Hut she had tie\er had oil shoes before. so the rubbers were better. Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle.

"Mali boy ain t unknown— mah bov flin't unknown!" Mandy muttered cim«". h-ssly to herself in a sort of chant, the '/old Star on her breast rising and falling stormilv.

"I'o" oh? Mainly!" one of the mothers whispered to another, and the sound can led to Mainly as her toiluorn hands helped to lilt the gorgeous wreath. "I'o' 111 ill •_!! !>is hca li I- rench I nknown Soldier's gra \ e will 'mind huh dat dey don' know which grave is huh .John Hei'irv's." "Kinda funny ain't it. Mis' \Va>iiinton V Why you reckon dat is?" Mandv straightened up. iier face working i|Uecrlv. "Steady there." It was the lmi'se at her elbow, alert, kind, firm, untiring. "Mali bov ain't nnknown! h "Don't worry about that. Mrs. .Tohnkoii. You know he fell on battlefield — that lie died a hero. Isn't, that enough?" Mandy >ul*-ided, but her old eves flashed as she heard the complacent tones of "Mis' Washin'ion" behind her: "Mali son lies in his own grave, undah h:s own proud name, praise do Lawd!" Those other nineteen mothers had been pitying Mainly all the way over on the ship. She knew in some vague way that tlx-y felt a little superior. She writhed under it. All the dear pride in her Hold Star was tarnished by it. She hadn't understood very well —why her boy was called "Unknown."' But while panic grew in her heart, she refused stubbornly to believe the kindly officers who sought to-prepare her. Why, jf it were as they said, she would never know whether she had done honour to John Ilenery Johnson, her own loved son, or "some triflin' niggah widout any raisin." They'd never have brought her go far over land and sea for that!

Rut her defiant certainty faded as tho time drew near. She drended the trip out to Romagne, to the battlefield and tho cemetery, the ultimate shrine.

Sho shrank back l>ehind the others when she was helped down from the bus at the Rest House in Romagne. She stood for a long time looking down the elope and up the other side. Little white crosses. Acres of tliom. Fields of them, little white cmsses.

She clutched her big reticule closer, that clumsy reticule which she kept beside her night and day. The other mothers had been curiou« as to what it contained. But she had never opened it before them.

Tho young army officer was directing the other niothevs to the graves of t bensons. Attendants escorted them with their wreaths and their lings and their little token brought frotn home, and left them alone with their dead.

Mandy was wailing sombrely, choking hack sobs, Hutching tlm reticule. She had seen nineteen mothers find nineteen graves on which fluttered, for this day, a little flflfr to mark thein from the rest. The kind, young officer returned to her. "Come, Airs. Johnson," he said

By ETHEL DOHERTY

and LOUISE LONG

gently. "\ou are to pick out any one of the Unknown Soldiers' graves and think of it as vour son's."

This was what she had dreaded come true! This was why they had pitied her, those 19 mothers even now weeping proudly above their dead! She looked ir agony at the young officer, and words came queerlv from her twisting lips: "Hut—he ain't unknown! I knows him! He's mah own baby, an' I wants to see bis grave.''

"We' re not sure which one it is, Mrs. ■Johnson. Hut we know he died in this sort or—that he lies here in this quiet field. Many mothers would give everything to know as much. Come with me. <>u can choose the grave you'd rather decorate for his—and believe with all your heart that he lies there. It might be true! - '

She went obediently. But the monotonous refrain beat, over and over again, stubbornly in her head: "Mali boy ain't unknown!"

They passed white cross after white cross—row and rows of them along the quiet green aisle. Names on them, and Mandy could read— a little. Her eyes were blinded with tears when the officer stopped beside one and left her there. After a time she took the handkerchief from her eves and looked at the cross: "Known only—unto—Clod," she spelled out painfully.

The storm burst. With a piercing scream Mandy flung her arms wildly toward the sky. "I wants mah baby! Lawd. Lawd. Christ, lieah me! I wants mah own baby!"

The effect on the other mothers was like a midden fierce wind that whips an already uneasy sea into tortured foam. Kneeling at the graves of their hero sons, those members of a highly emotional race were thrown into uncontrollable hysteria. Mandv's sobs and screams were echoed by 10 other mothers. With her they beat their breasts with mounting sorrow and agony.

The young arniv officer dashed here and there, commanding, cajoling, soothing. Under the spell of hie quiet discipline Mandy finally relaxed, spent. He took her by the arm and led her do-vn to the Rest House, talking gently to her. Mandy did not hear a word he said.

"I wants mah own baby's grave," she moaned over and over again. He placed her on the bench outside the Rest House, out of sight of the white crosses. When she huddled forward with

her head on her hands, rocking herself, he left her and ran anxiously back to the other mothers.

"Little T.awd Jesus!" Mandy prayed tensely, "gib me a sign—gib me a sign to tell me wlia' mah own boy is buried . . ."

The two French peasants who came hurrying around a corner of the Rest llouso were looking for the American superintendent of the cemetery. They had not found him at the office. They paused beside Mandy, talking excitedly. She lifted her head and stared up at them, not understanding a word of their language. The older man glanced down into her grief-stricken face. ''Pauvre Mere,'' he said, laying a scarred hand upon her shoulder with infinite gentleness. "I wants to find John Henery's grave," she told them helplessly. "1 wants to find mah boy's grave." Then the" superintendent approached far down the path. The younger peasant took a small object carefully from his blouse, looked at it to be sure it wa« intact, and then rushed off to meet the superintendent. Rut Mandy had seen the object in that instant. It caused the world to reel, but she conquered her weakness and struggled to her feet. '"Wait —please — wait a minute!" she quavered. Not hearing, the'three men had started across the ploughed fields. Mandy lurched after them, calling, crying, until the effort of running robbed her of

breath and tie sounds came in great sobs. The big reticule banged her side I at every Btep as ebe staggered over the j uneven ground. j The peasants led the superintendent j down to a far corner of their field, which lay beyond th cemetery. They had . ploughed the ground a few inches closer | to a rocky ledge than they had done j before. They were accustomed to j coining instantly to the superintendent to report any find in the sector. They had been instructed not to dig further until the earth could be sifted carefully in search of identifications they were still finding after all the year* that had passed. Marulv stumbled and fell into the last furrow," then picked herself up dazedly and came forward gasping: "My— boy — The superintendent, carefully staking off a piece of the field, turned and saw the dust-covered, wrinkled black mother dragging herself toward him. He still held the little object. Mamlv clawed it from hi* hand and stared at it with enormous eyes.

It was a iit tie luck charm, a horseshoe of corroded metal clamped deeply into the bit of leather which had lasted.

•'Dat's—dat's mail John Henery's clia'm!" The words tore from her parched throat. '"He wore it—ilex' his heart!"

''Hut —" the superintendent began, and then stopped suddenly. "Praise de Lawd! Praise de little I,awd -Jesus!" cried Mandy, going down on her knees in the soft earth. "He done gib me a sign! Dis am mail own baby's grave!" Great tears ran down her dusty cheeks and a glorious smile lit lier weary face. She fell 011 the ploughed eartli and patted it with pink-palmed black old hands, as she had patted a baby's coverlet years before.

The youn-r officer in cli-irge oaino up silently. lie looked, comprehending, into the puzzled eyes of the superintendent and said something > n French. The peasants took off their huts and fctood with bowed heads.

Presently Mandy roused herself. She took from her reticule a little white cross made of wood. On it was painted with uneven gold letters: "John Heurv Johnson." She planted the cross carefully at the head of the space of ploughed ground which the superintendent had marked off. She placed a tinv silk flag below it and a wreath of withered \iolets. She knelt there, praying. When she was quite ready, the officer took lier b»ck to the other mothers at the Rest House. It was a glorified, triumphant Mandy who recounted the story of the eign from heaven to the awestruck group. The officer listened and was glad. "'God works in mysterious ways—" he thought. He never told Mandy that half the coloured men of the regiment who fell at Romagne had carried a similar charm — bought at the 10 cent store in Atlanta. "For, after all." he said to the superintendent, "who can tell?"