In the year 1914 a boy went off to war. He hadn't finished school, but like all the others in his class he went gladly down to the induction center.
When their train pulled out of the bleak north country station, a hundred pale child faces called farewell to their weeping cheering families. A hundred mud colored uniforms waved as the train receded into the misty afternoon.
A year later the students of the Boys' Grammar School were not quite so eager to go off to the war. Names of remembered faces were appearing in increasing numbers on the green baize notice board outside the head master's office. Stories of mud and mustard gas were coming home on leave.
The boy wrote home from France. He was applying to join the Flying Corps.
When his mother wrote to say it sounded dangerous, the boy smiled sadly as he answered that it was his only chance.
The boy became a pilot. Not a hero fighter pilot, but a flier of bomber reconnaissance planes. He was shot down once and crashed three times - twice his own fault. He recovered each time, but the terror he felt never really left him.
On one of his leaves the boy fell in love with a girl from home. She had a wild laugh which was common in that country, and good teeth which were not. When they said good-bye, the girl said ``Come home safe!''
``I'll do my best,'' he said.
The boy scored a direct hit on a submarine - or possibly a whale. If it was a German submarine he should have got a medal, but no one was sure. When the boy was de-mobilized only two others from his class had survived - and the six rejects who did not go. They had a drink together years later.
The boy was eager to settle down and marry. He came home with his eyes shining. He hugged his mother and shook his father's hand.
``I must see Ellen,'' he said.
``No,'' said his father.
``No?''
``She got influenza. She died last week. Ellen is dead.''
The boy had wept a hundred times for dead companions. He had not expected to weep in time of peace.