Burned Bridges by Bertrand W. Sinclair (bearly read books txt) 📕

Arms Around His Neck And Her Lips

On His Before He Went.

 

"Oh,  Well," He Muttered To Himself As He Watched The Few Harbor Lights

Falling Astern,  Yellow Pin-Points On The Velvety Black Of The Shore,"

This Is Likely To Be The Finish Of _That_. I Think I've Burned My Last

Bridge. And I Have Learned To Stand On My Own Feet,  Whether She Believes

So Or Not."

 

 

Chapter 22 (Thompson's Return) Pg 148

"Anon We Return,  Being Gathered Again

Across The Sad Valleys All Drabbled With Rain."

 

On An Evening Near The First Of September,  1918,  A Canadian Pacific

Train Rumbled Into Vancouver Over Tracks Flanked On One Side By Wharves

And On The Other By Rows Of Drab Warehouses. It Rolled,  Bell Clanging

Imperiously,  With Decreasing Momentum Until It Came To A Shuddering Halt

Beside The Depot That Rises Like A Great,  Brown Mausoleum At The Foot Of

A Hill On Which The City Sits Looking On The Harbor Waters Below.

 

Upon The Long,  Shed-Roofed Platform Were Gathered The Fortunate Few

Whose Men Were On That Train. Behind These Waited Committees Of Welcome

For Stray Dogs Of War Who Had No Kin. The Environs Of The Depot Proper

And A Great Overhead Bridge,  Which Led Traffic Of Foot And Wheel From

The Streets To The Docks,  High Over The Railway Yards,  Were Cluttered

With Humanity That Cheered Loudly At The First Dribble Of Khaki From The

Train Below.

 

It Was Not A Troop Train,  Merely The Regular Express From The East. But

It Bore A Hundred Returned Men,  And News Of Their Coming Had Been Widely

Heralded. So The Wives And Sweethearts,  The Committees,  And The Curious,

Facile-Minded Crowd,  Were There To Greet These Veterans Who Were Mostly

The Unfortunates Of War,  Armless,  Legless Men,  Halt And Lame,  Gassed And

Shrapnel-Scarred--And Some Who Bore No Visible Sign Only The White Face

And Burning Eyes Of Men Who Had Met Horror And Walked With It And

Suffered Yet From The Sight. All The Wounds Of The War Are Not Solely Of

The Flesh,  As Many A Man Can Testify.

Chapter 22 (Thompson's Return) Pg 149

From One Coach There Alighted A Youngish Man In The Uniform Of The Royal

Flying Corps. He Carried A Black Bag. He Walked A Little Stiffly. Beyond

That He Bore No Outward Trace Of Disablement. His Step And Manner

Suggested No Weakness. One Had To Look Close To Discern Pallor And A

Peculiar Roving Habit Of The Eyes,  A Queer Tensity Of The Body. A

Neurologist,  Versed In The By-Products Of War,  Could Have Made A Fair

Guess At This Man's Medical-History Sheet. But The Folk On The Platform

That Night Were Not Specialists In Subtle Diagnosis Of The Nervous

System. Nor Were The Committees. They Were Male And Female Of Those Who

Had Done Their Bit At Home,  Were Doing It Now,  Welcoming Their Broken

Heroes. The Sight Of A Man With A Scarred Face,  A Mutilated Limb,

Elicited Their Superficial Sympathy,  While The Hidden Sickness Of Racked

Nerves In An Unmaimed Body They Simply Could Not Grasp.

 

So This Man With The Black Bag And The Wings On His Left Arm Walked The

Length Of The Platform,  Gained The Steel Stairway Which Led To The Main

Floor Of The Depot,  And When He Had Climbed Half-Way Stopped To Rest And

To Look Down Over The Rail.

 

Below,  The Mass Of Humanity Was Gravitating Into Little Groups Here And

There About A Khaki Center. There Was Laughter,  And Shrill Voices,  With

An Occasional Hysterical Note. There Were Men Surrounded By Women And

Children,  And There Were Others By Twos And Threes And Singly Who Looked

Enviously At These Little Groups Of The Reunited,  Men Who Moved

Haltingly On Their Way To The City Above,  Perfunctorily Greeted,

Perfunctorily Handshaken,  And Perfunctorily Smiled Upon By The Official

Welcomers.

 

He Looked At This Awhile,  With A Speculative,  Pitying Air,  And Continued

His Climb,  Passing At Last Through Great Doors Into A Waiting-Room,  A

Place Of High,  Vaulted Ceilings,  Marble Pillars,  Beautiful Tiled Floors.

He Evaded Welcoming Matrons On The Watch For Unattached Officers,  To

Hale Them Into An Anteroom Reserved For Such,  To Feed Them Sandwiches

And Doubtful Coffee,  And To Elicit Tales Of Their Part In The Grim

Business Overseas. This Man Avoided The Cordial Clutches Of The Socially

Elect By The Simple Expedient Of Saying That His People Expected Him. He

Uttered This Polite Fiction In Self-Defense. He Did Not Want To Talk Or

Be Fed. He Was Sick Of Noise,  Weary Of Voices,  Irritated By Raucous

Sounds. All He Desired Was A Quiet Place Away From The Confusion Of

Which He Had Been A Part For Many Days,  To Get Speedily Beyond Range Of

The Medley Of Voices And People That Reminded Him Of Nothing So Much As

A Great Flock Of Seagulls Swooping And Crying Over A School Of Herring.

 

He Passed On To The Outer Door Which Gave On The Street Where Taxi

Drivers And Hotel Runners Bawled Their Wares,  And Here In The Entrance

Met The First Face He Knew. A Man About His Own Age,  Somewhat Shorter,  A

Great Deal Thicker Through The Waist,  Impeccably Dressed,  Shouldered

His Way Through A Group At The Exit.

 

Their Eyes Met. Into The Faces Of Both Leaped Instant Recognition. The

Soldier Pressed Forward Eagerly. The Other Stood His Ground. There Was A

Look Which Approached Unbelief On His Round,  Rather Florid Features. But

He Grasped The Extended Hand Readily Enough.

 

Chapter 22 (Thompson's Return) Pg 150

"By Jove,  It _Is_ You,  Wes," He Said. "I Couldn't Believe My Eyes. So

You're Back Alive,  Eh? You Were Reported Killed,  You Know. Shot Down

Behind The German Lines. You Made Quite A Record,  Didn't You? How's

Everything Over There?"

 

There Was A Peculiar Quality In Tommy Ashe's Tone,  A Something That Was

Neither Aloofness Nor Friendliness,  Nor Anything That Wes Thompson Could

Immediately Classify. But It Was There,  A Something Tommy Tried To

Suppress And Still Failed To Suppress. His Words Were Hearty,  But His

Manner Was Not. And This He Confirmed By His Actions. Thompson Said That

Things Over There Were Going Well,  And Let It Go At That. He Was More

Vitally Concerned Just Then With Over Here. But Before He Could Fairly

Ask A Question Tommy Seized His Hand And Wrung It In Farewell.

 

"Pardon My Rush,  Old Man," He Said. "I've Got An Appointment I Can't

Afford To Pass Up,  And I'm Late Already. Look Me Up To-Morrow,  Will

You?"

 

Two Years Is Long For Some Things,  Over-Brief For Others. In Thompson

Those Twenty-Four Months Had Softened Certain Perspectives. He Had

Quickened At Sight Of Tommy's Familiar Face,  Albeit That Face Was A

Trifle Grosser,  More Smugly Complacent Than He Had Ever Expected To

Behold It. He Could Mark The Change More Surely For The Gap In Time. But

Tommy Had Not Been Glad To See Him. Thompson Felt That Under The Outward

Cordiality.

 

He Took Up His Bag And Went Out On The Street,  Hailed The Least

Vociferous Of The Taxi Pirates And Had Himself Driven To The Granada

Hotel. His Brows Were Still Knitting In Abstracted Thought When A

Bell-Boy Had Transported The Black Bag And Himself To A Room On The

Sixth Floor,  Received His Gratuity And Departed. Thompson Was High Above

The Rumble Of Street Cars,  Facing A Thoroughfare Given Largely To Motor

Traffic,  With A Window Which Overlooked The Lower Town And Harbor,  And

The Great Hills Across The Inlet Looming Duskily Massive Against The

Paler Sky.

 

He Stood By The Window Looking Over Roofs And Traffic And The Glow-Worm

Light Of Shipping In The Stream. He Could Smell The Sea,  The Brown Kelp

Bared On Rocky Beaches By A Falling Tide. And He Fancied That Even At

That Distance He Could Get A Whiff Of The Fir And Cedar That Clothed The

Mountain Flank.

 

"By God," He Whispered. "It's Good To Be Back."

 

He Said It Much As A Man Might Breathe A Prayer. All This That He Saw

Now Had Lingered In His Memory,  Had Risen Up To Confront Him As

Something Beautiful And Desirable,  Many Times When He Never Expected To

See It Again. For It Was Not Logical,  He Held,  That He Should Survive

Where So Many Others Had Perished. It Was Just A Whimsey Of Fate. And He

Was Duly And Honestly Grateful That It Had Been Permitted Him To

Outlive Many Gallant Comrades In The Perilous Service Of The Air.

 

Three Days And Nights On A Train Close Upon Long Months In Hospital Had

Left Him Very Tired. Rest Both His Body And Uneasy Nerves Craved

Insistently. Although It Lacked Some Minutes Of Eight,  He Threw Off His

Clothes And Went To Bed.

 

In The Morning He Rose Refreshed,  Eager To Be About,  To Look Up Men He

Chapter 22 (Thompson's Return) Pg 151

Knew,  To Talk Of Things Beyond The Scope Of War.

 

But When He Went Out Into Vancouver's Highways And Met People,  His

Uniform Gave Them A Conversational Cue. And He Found That Here,  Six

Thousand Miles From The Guns,  Even Less Than Among His Fellows In The

Hangars Behind The Fighting Line Could He Escape That Topic. He Did Not

Want To Talk About Fighting And Killing. He Had Lived Those Things And

That Was Enough. So He Came Back To The Granada And Read The Papers And

Had His Lunch And Decided To Look Up Tommy Ashe.

 

He Had Learned Casually That Morning That Tommy's Company Had More Than

Made Good Tommy's Prophecy Of Swift Work. Tommy Ashe And Joe Hedley Were

Rising Young Men.

 

"Oh,  Yes,  They've Got A Mint," A Broker He Knew Said To Thompson,  With

An Unconcealed Note Of Envy. "By Gad,  It's A Marvel How A Pair Of Young

Cubs Like That Can Start