It was in the middle of August in 1918. John had not seen Gene since in early June for he had been wounded in a battle near the Belleau Wood. A few days after the marines had mowed down hordes of gray-clad enemies with perfect marksmanship. John had been rushed to an emergency hospital at that time, later he was moved to the base hospital in Brest, where his wounds were being treated daily.

John lay on his cot with its snowy white sheets and cases, looking at the murky sky, it had been weeks since he had seen a sunshiny day. He wondered where his comrade was and if he were still safe. He closed his eyes and could see it all again- the battlefield and the way he happened to get hurt.

They had ridden from the railroad to the front in a chugging, rattling bus. He could again see the poor tired and hungry refugees slowly mobbing in the opposite direction along the road, in an attempt to flee from the German's rapidly advancing lines. There were old men and women with hoary hair, and small children, riding in hand carts and on the backs of donkeys. Some were trudging along with sticks in their hands, driving a cow or nanny goat before them. They carried oddly shaped bundles, containing food and personal belongings. Their faces and tattered clothing were covered with white dust that was whirled upon them by the rumbling truck and busses that were rolling along the road toward the enemy's line.

He remembered how stiff and tired his limbs felt from riding, but the machine guns were advancing and the artillery must make ready to "hold the lines." That night, his company had slept in a field of unharvested wheat. He was so tired then, he could have slept on a pile of rocks without them feeling hard, he was sure. Lying there, looking up into the blackness of the night, before he dropped off to sleep, he heard the uneven purr of an aeroplane somewhere overhead. He knew that sound came from no other than an enemy plane, for only the motors of the German planes made that particular sound. For a few seconds, his muscles were tense, he wondered if a bomb would be dropped down on them where they lay. Soon, the purr faded away in the distance and his eyes closed in sleep until near dawn.

The Germans had placed machine gun nests in every place of advantage in the Belleau Wood, which was a jungle of heavy foliage, vines, and short underbrush. Orders had been given to clear out the German nests. It was on the morning of June 6, just before daybreak that the fighting began, outside the main woods. John was lying in a shell hole and in another not far away was Gene, between them and back of them lay scores of dead and dying comrades that had been fired upon from hidden German guns. John remembered how he had clutched his rifle tightly in his hands. At his feet nestled a bag of hand grenades. "Plurp!" A bullet whizzed over him, missing his head by mere inches. Another and still another hummed by. John peered over the edge of the hole and tried to make out where the shots were coming from. They were from somewhere in the nearby thicket, but just exactly where he could not tell. Gene fired a shot from his hiding place, to attract the attention of the Heines. John knew his chance and he crawled like a furry green caterpillar from one hole to the next toward the clump of brush not far from him. He dragged the bag of bombs with him while Gene kept the Germans interested.

Again, John found protection and fired toward the nest to give Gene a rest and a chance to advance, John saw a rustle in the trees not far from him. He drew a hand grenade out of the bag and raised his arm to throw it into the German nest. A German in the nest saw him and fired his Mauser in his direction just as the bomb lit in the clump of trees. John remembered the horrible pain in his arm and shoulder. If the German's aim had been sure, John would have been killed instead of being wounded. Gene went into the trees and finished the job the hand grenade had started then came back to John and bound up his wounded arm. He carried John's pack and gun, and together they started back to find the rest of their company, for they were the only two left of their platoon. As they went stumbling along over the shell-torn ground, passing the dead comrades, they came upon a familiar figure. John shuddered at the thought of seeing Squatty lying there in a pool of red that had once been the lifestream in his veins.

"He will not see his son again," Gene said brokenly. "God, why couldn't it have been me? I have no one to go back home and now without her there." John saw the cold stare in his comrade's eyes that had once been so sparkling and bright. He was so different, so gloomy and sad. It hurt John to think of Gene having to suffer like he was. He shut his eyes and tried to wipe out the memories of the battlefields by trying to go to sleep.

***

Martha Porter was working in the hospital in Brest. She had been making her round, cheering the wounded soldiers and doing little tasks to make them more comfortable. With her heart changed to a desire to serve, she was a ray of sunshine wherever she went. Always neat and cheerful with her whole soul intent upon helping the suffering soldiers. She stopped by John's bedside and shook up his pillows and gave him a drink of water, smiling pleasantly while she worked.

"Is there anything else I can do for you?" she asked.

"Are you very busy?" John returned her smile.

"Not just now, why?"

"Well, you see, my right arm is the one that got jimmied up and I can't write now but I can think of a lot of things that I would like to say to my dear mother back home."

"Would you like me to write a letter for you?" Martha asked.

"Would you? They notified her about my being wounded and I haven't been able to write her myself, yet. I am afraid she will worry herself sick over me unless I tell that I am not hurt very badly. I just can't write with my left hand that is all," the soldier explained.

"I will be glad to write for you. I will get a pen and some paper and be right back." Martha went out and returned shortly with the articles need, stamp, envelope and all.

She wrote a letter to John's mother as he dictated it. She could see by the things he wished to write to his mother that he was a good clean fellow, a true American. Among other things he told her that his comrade was suffering far more than he was even though he had not so much as a scratch on his physical body. He told, for the first time, how his friend of his had received word that his young wife and died back in his hometown, the news had taken all of the life and spirit out of him. How John wished he could help Gene bear his sorrow. He was still at the front as far as he knew. He hoped no harm would come to him out there.

John did not mention the name of any of them or Martha could have explained everything to him, for she had received word of her aunt's death at the time. How complicated things could become in just a short time. When Martha had finished the letter, she put it into the envelope and addressed it ready to be mailed. She could see that John's strength was spent, so she patted his left hand gently as if to give him courage and assurance that he would soon be well, then she said, "You must try to sleep now. I will come again and see how you are."

"Say, what is your name?" he asked with pleading eyes as she turned to go.

"It is just Martha." She smiled down at him.

"And mine is John. They are both good old common names, aren't they?" He smiled faintly as he was very tired.

"Yes, they are both good old common names, I hope you like yours better than I have always liked mine. You must rest now," Martha said and left him alone to rest and think.

He had noticed the kindness in her big brown eyes that had tiny specks of blue-grey here and there in the iris. He had admired her well-shaped nose and in summing up all of her features, he concluded that she was beautiful. He seemed to remember of having seen a picture that looked very much like her but he could not recall just where it was. Her hands were soft and warm. He remembered how she had patted his left hand ever so gently. "Her name is just plain Martha," he mused.

Martha, too, singled John out of all the hundreds of soldiers that she saw every day and allowed her thoughts to concentrate on his handsome features and his winning, manly ways.

During the next three days, she visited his bedside as often as duty would permit. He was very grateful. Then she went out of life as suddenly as she had entered it. There was a call for brave girls to go work at the front and she answered the call of service. John missed her, he thought of her a great deal and longed for another chance to have those kind eyes look down on him. He longed for her cheerful smile and the touch of her soft white hand.

In a distant camp, Martha wondered how John Chatterton was getting along. By addressing his letter to his mother and by being able to look at the names on the hospital records, she had the advantage over him. She knew his surname and the name of his hometown. She had kept her own name and the name of her hometown from him but she felt sure that she would see him again in Kingsford when the war was over if she did not have a chance to see him again in France.