New Britain Herald Newspaper, December 7, 1918, Page 8

“I Have Not Paid Too High a By Margaret M. Lukes HE night the newspapers blazed forth the lines “Berlin Sends tles to Conclude Allied Terms” Sergeant Irving Sidney Cla of the 109th dining room of his home in Philadel- phia sister. Armisti Intantry, sat in the with his arm around his little To be exact he was running halr, thick ht of the conver- his fingers through her n hair, aglint in the li There was a feverishly light-hearted, going on. Then suddenly it stopped. Sen- s half finished faded into the air. let me feel it” a strong the other side of the table aying. “I'll bet it's twice as when I went away.” And we there in silence, watching the sirong vigorous hand of the soldier male its way through the shining hair of the beloved little sis- ter, in whose name he had made out his life insurance. If there were stray tears hastily flicked away in that room that min- ute, why then they did no harm. » White bandages tightly bound around & man's eyes are merciful trappings for those who come for the first time to wring the hand of a boy who gave his eyes for his country. In a min- ute the rcom was ringing with laugh- ter and college day reminiscences again. And Sergeant Clair, two years 880 a boy of twenty-two entering his third year law and that night home from the war totally blind, will never know there were those about him who lnughed through a mist of tears. Or if he does know we are never golng to be aware of it. “I Am Going to Win” With all the world standing on the threshold of a peace where men will be forever safe from the mad burst of shells that maim, with America herself In the main unbroken, Ser- geant Clair, who gave the gift that all the indemnities of the earth can- not pay back, smiles cheerfully. Hyes are no longer the windows of the soul. The spirit of a man never shone more vividly than from that splendid sunburned face gleaming bronze against the white gauze. “I have not pald too high a price,” was the way he explained things. Sergeant Clair will never see again, but he is content. This young man who gave his eyes to America is more. Sitting there, with strong eager Lands unlike the hands of the blind because they lately belonged to a boy who was winning medals for athletics in school, this youth outlined a program of stupendous courage that can well serve as a flaming ban- ner for all the men who must march down the ways of life paying the price of victory as they go. “I am going to win out,” he said. “Eyes do not count; legs and arms do not count. It’s the man inside that matters. Eyes do not count. Why, I can see with my memory. You won't believe at. “Well, T wouldn’t have believed it 1f you said it to me five months ago. Then I looked at blindness as a seeing man at it. Now it is different. I look at it as a blind rnan looks at it. And T know blindness to the blind isn’t the crushing thing or the handi- cap it appears to the outsider. “I am going to be a lawyer, as I had always planned to be. The Govern- ment will pay for my schooling. I am going to try to make good because I believe making good depends on the determination in a man. It's up to the stuff inside of you.” Strictly speaking, Clair gave his eves in the cause of world democracy. But in the fine human vernacular of the trenches he gave his eyes for a pal. The cane which the Repub- lican committee of his ward presented him has in letters of gold, “Biinded in the Second Battle of the Marne, July 14.” All America knows now it was on July 14 the 109th massed itself near the banks of the Marne, waiting to hurl back what proved to be the last offensive of the Crown Prince of Germany. On the 15th the Germans crossed the Marne and the Americans attacked and pushed them pack. On the 14th, Bastille Day, the bombardment began and men went mad, targets for the first time of the most terrific artillery fire the world had ever known. That tells part of the story. for the rest: Blinded Helping Comrade named Shortall was hit. That called out, “I'm hit.” Through the and the bang of shells Sergeant Clair heard. Out through the rain of death he scooted to try to give first aid. Just he was hending down to cut away Short- all's puttees with irench knife a chell exploded in his face. Clair was h in the When he came s on his back. It was at o'clock on a sunlit could lam; general sation, slowlv looks As A boy was what he whi his shot alr, down he w that moment, 5 afternoon, Clair re eight totally blind soldiers Clair is one with some twenty blind they are sta- Hospital No. 7, the experimental hospital Baltimere. § Philadelphia every discovered he There a aC 0 in Amer tio Base for ind in Clair goes home to other week-end on furloug h It vas on the second trip home I went to talk to the blind soldier Science can make for men, she can make legs, but there never have been discovered eyes with which a man can see, There have been men in this war who have gaid they would rather die over there m France than come home blind Knowing all this, then, it was not crgeant artificlal arms casy to undertake to talk to a man had leen what is uni- ed eme sucri There is a service flag hanging in the front window of the home where young Clair lives wit mothet Mrs. 8. Clair, who Is a widow; Arthur and Harry, his the little twely always been peculiarly attached to. 1 have seen many service flags, but th was more poignantly different than them all. Back of the little square turough the window and in the light I could see a boy with his eves swathed in bandages, and J knew he would never see again. There were boys all around him, some in sailor suits, some in khakl, and there was his mother r fate ally consids the = his brothers, and Miriam year-old sister he has friendship trenches matchless the trates that another flowered in muddy of France “What I 1ed to me after I found he continued. ran like lightning to Who Why it seems for any one around here not to He is Willlam Barrett, a boy tristol. who went to the border with the old First when I did. Then we went to Hancock together, then to France and to the Marne. Barrett was my best pal all the way through. “The shells were bursting all arouna, but Barrett lifted me up quickly. He put my arm around his shoulder and we walked back together that way. We thought we were eoing to the dressing station. But we found they all had been moved back on account 3arrett me. funny Sergeant Irving Sidrey Clair (to the left) before he was rendered blind by a Hun shell and his “pal,” “Bill” Barrett, who rescued him back of his chair. And there was no one in the room who was not laugh- ing at a joke the lad with bound eyes was telling. Inside In the luxurious living room which showed so plainly how many of the good things of life had always been Clair's, that was the first swift impression you formed of him. He is a boy with a natural ability to make others laugh. Yet the theme of this young man’s life ran far deeper. It was Reuben, a student at the University of Pennsylvania and one of the boy’s hest friends, who made me realize what despair blindness conid bhave brought into tne life or Clair if ambition had not been tem- pered with the quality that made him throw ambition to the winds when war was declared. Pictures of Memory “He was a chap who hitched his wagon to a star,” Reuben told me. “At eighteen with most boys it is here one day and some place else tomorrow, as far as definite aims are concerned. But it wasn’t that way with Clair. He knew what he wanted, law. He dreamed it and lived it. A boy can’t help knowing when he has the power to sway the crowd, and that is what Clair has. At high school they always singled him out to be spokesman for his class, and it seems he was forever at the head of thinxs. “Is” as many the boys affec- tionately call the wounded soldier, was a member of the class of 1910 at Cen- tral High, where he achieved laurels in sports as well as in studies. Later he won a scholarship. The scholarship entitled him to a full course of law at the Temple Uni- versity. He was entering his third vear when America declared war on Germany. Then it was Clair stripped the dreams out of ‘his life. With the vanguard of the country’s young man- hood he was off to a training camp. Because he had enlisted at the time of the trouble at the border, “Is” was automatically a member of the old Pennsyivania First Regiment, and he went to Camp Hancock, in Augusta, with the others. Last May, with the rest of the Twenty-eighth or Iron Divl- sion, Clair sailed for France a corporal tn Company A, 109th Infantr It was July 13 when the five fleets of motort ok brought the 109th into fighting position at Conde-en-Brie and St. Agnan. Then July 14, Clair does not talking about that day. Tt was most ot the boys had crifted out he came into the dining room, played with his little sister’s hair, teased her about her little beau, Martin, and between times talked of the things that had come lnto his life in France I have told sight was destr a young corporal to wounds. The boy pic tive here and tel of came mir after how Sergeant Clair’s 25 he beat over try to ease his s up the narra- a story that illus- of the heavy artillery fire. But the ambulances were beginning to come up for the wounded. “Barrett put me down on a stretcher beside Shortall, the boy I tried to help, and the two of us lay there for three- quarters of an hour with shells sweep- ing over us. That was the worst part opvrizht 1918 by Puble Tedror Co Just as he was bending down to cut the puttees from a wounded couwrade a shell exploded in his face—and Clair of it all. we were The shells were coming, and helpless. “Were you in pain?” one asked. “No,” was the answer. worried about Ralph Shortall than anything else. He was groaning so and in such pain. They had to take his right leg off later on.” “Didn’t you groan too?” “Well, I really wasn’t in pain,” answered “Is,” “and I I didn’t have anything to groan about. 1 couldn’t see, of course, hut it wasn't until I got back to the States T knew I would always be blind. of the boys “I was more much guess “Barrett went right back to the firing line after he left us. In thirty minutes he v severely wounded him: self. I believe they had to take off an arm and possibly a leg I am worried about Barrett. I don’t know where he is.’ In the course of h conversation voung Clair spoke of the beauty of Grande Ion the little headquar ters town in that particular pe the Marne battlefield. aine, “There was a wonderful big tain there in the middle of the tov that's how it got its name. I used to love to watch it sparkle in t shine.” Over and over again he repeated the wo “I can see with my memory.” What farewell pictur there must be stored in the mind of this splendid boy. In those last days of sunshine there was the Marne, little blue stream of sparkling down through its destiny, n There was the Eiffel green banks. discovered he could no longer see Tower, miles away in Paris, that could be seen in the vast lovely distance of the sky on a clear day. There were the warm poppies and the little wild cately colored tapestry in eraceful profusion the hills. There the sun and nights with their stars that came to blot out the devastation of the day But if there are pictures stored away the day hunzer for the auty of the world might gnaw at his save intangible cause doe: re things locked in to know fiowers of France spread like del over were sets the against when 1eart. the boy w his eyes pat I: there # the world is not going the e not say. his heart about t Youns ¢ He sat in the dining room of his home with his arm around his sis- ter, running his fingers through her golden h ness worries his mother sometimes. “I think sometimes he does not tell feels for fear it will make me worry,” she says. “When I went (o Baltimore to him that first time I @id not know I could stand to see ™y boy blind. He was such a wonderful son. Then 1 did see him at last. Then he told me how he felt, And, oh, 1T was so glad to have him back, to touch him and be near him Pretty soon he wanted to talk about the business, which he was very much father died cn we sat there together agfl talked things over. Suddenly I disfovered I had forgotten he was blind. You can’t know what that feeling meant to me. T knew mv same boy was back again how he really sce interested in since h Price”—Says Sightless Sergeant Clair - hap- living in cpite of ar had vihing that ud had planned knew he cc z0 on his life as he “olonel Bordley, in e thospital of the there charge me hope for eyes. They are s0ing to operate on left eye. Of do not know what that means. there, told was no his his course I I am not going to give up hope, though. But down there, although they cannot ee again, they say won- things about what boy is going to be able to do without seeing. Clair is only professional man out of the eight who are totally blind back in this country. It is natural his case should provoke unusual in- terest. His progress in the studies for the blind is already said to be mar- velous. Mrs. Clair produced a little letter her son had written on the type- writer, learning without his eyes in the few short weeks he has been in America the touch system to such & degree of proficiency that there were only two misplaced letters on the en- At the hospital, an estate the Government by Mrs. T. Harrison Garrett, of Baltl- more, there regular classes held all day, with intervals for gymnasium and swimming. Clair divides his time between the Braille, which is learning to read by letter method and typewriting. he will derful my the tire page. turned over to are the iaised From a Mother’s Letter There was a sentence in Sergeant Clair’s letter to his which seemed to stretch its significance be- yond the little tvpewritten page. “If you want to meet me, all right,” he wrote, “but you know that I can get home alone in case you can't make That is the spirit of Irving Sid- Clair, blinded in the second battle of the Marne. He can get along. The Government allots to him $100 a th for the duration of his life. It is not too much to y Clair s not going to need his pension. The dreams and surgings that whispered to him back in the days when the war was mercifully hidden in the future will come true. This who gave his eyes In order that the rest of us might g0 on seeing, shall not die with his song unsung. We shall hear from him later on—Clair, the lawyer who won with his brains. mother ice ne; Russia Not Yet Ready for Freedom, Says Muscovite Daughter By H. C. Norris IS like a stone — a precious tone, big and shapeless and un It is a precious stone that not of use until mooth, makes it “I r polished. awaits the polishing, the jeweler makes it it & wonder before the skine, makes world.” This is Russia today. With all the melancholy fire of the Slav soul, an eighteen-year-old ¥ rl—just es- caped from the Bolshevik horrors and now safe in Philadelphia—spoke her f2ith in the ultimate triumph of order and of beauty in her own afilicted land. “An unpolished stone,” repeated Zinsaida Dlugatch in the words of the old Russian proverb, “is not of use.” It takes courage to have faith in a land from which you have fled. It takes courage and insight to see be- yond the excesses, the brutalities that make Petrograd streets a shambles today and glimpse, behind the terror, a future full of calm where genius shall be untainted by insanity. Of such faith and courage and In- sight will the future Russia Le molded. “The peasants, the great mass of the people, how could they know what freedom means?’ asked the eighteen- year-old refugee with a wistful little smile tha ned the sadness still lining her rosy young face; “they had no education. They had nothing. . To live in Russla it was necessary to be rich. Otherwise you were crushed. And yet, in spite of bitter poverty and oppression, the people were 80 simple and trusting: they did not lie to others, they did not thiuk cthers would lie o them. “That is why the Germans got such control in my country. They saw how trusting the people were—and they lied and lied and led!” deeyp Russian Only a few weeks have passed since this girl with her noticeably lovely blue cyes——so unwavering and so filled with pain—succeeded in reaching her relatives in this country. Four years ago her parents and two of her sisters came here. War broke out, and for four dreadful years the zirl, left with other relatives in Petrograd, has been to get passage to America. The horrors she has seen in the streets of Petrograd left 2 gash upon Ler heart too deep ever to be effaced. “It is trying have “I live in a dream.” she said. so quiet here. I cannot believe that I am safe at last. 1 go into your shops: food is piled high, and all may buy it. ‘Ah, God!’ I say, and the tears come; ‘if J could but gather this up and send it to the babies I've seen starving—' And in the night I with a start, listening for guns to be fired beneath my window. She shivered a little and looked around the walls of her mother’s apartment in rhiladely™ia as if half expecting a rabble of Bolshevik sol- diers to burst in at ths door. “They rush into your house at any hour,” she said tremulously. “It makes no difference who you are or where you live. All is madne The French Revolution—Russia is far more terrible than that. Such things they do, such laws they make—it is the whim of madmen that governs from moment to moment.” wake such in, Khve- In some rural provinc in remote spots as Luga, Koy linsk, the Bolshevik idea been given its full terrific sway. The sys- tem of free love has been taken from the tentative essay stage and “legal- ized.” Al girls of eighteen years and over are the property of the State and must “marry” for strictly temporary periods the men who choose them. All the children of such unions will belong to the State, and altogether it is a Bernard Shaw, Ellen Key, anthro- pological hodgepodge of made fact. “I have heard of this terrible thing,” the refugee admitted, “in the far places, but not in the capital. Things were bad enough in Petrograd, but not s0 bad as in the small towns, where people, ignorant and bewildercd, were at the mercy of lunatics. How can such a system prevail? How can Rus- sia hope to found a strong and wise State on this loose and awful experi- ment? Russia, so fond of home, so filled with love for the children, for the old parents The home—that is the foundation on which Russla must build. Even Czar—poor, weak man though he was—even the Czar adored his family. Even the Czarina worshiped her children. No, no! The an home is the cornerstone on Russia must build. It is our greatest hope tods “In Petrograd—" has ideas our Sonia, the twenty-year-old sister, spoke. She had been listening eagerly. devouring the refugee with big, dark cyes, putting in a word now and ‘then in soft, rushing Slavic when the other girl’s vocabulary failed and translating here and there a difficult idiom. “In Petrograd.” said Sonia. For a moment there was The words had revived glowing mem- cries. Seated there in the guiet room. no danger surging at the door, no clamor 1n the the two sisters were symbolic of that fine and pathetic nation which cking hard to heal and to cemfort “In Petrograd,” s Sonia again, t was a cozy fire, and the brass sam- ovar seething softly on the table, and good books and good cheer. All of us went school, though it meant about $500 a year each. Schools are not free in Russin—a public school system is what the Russians must have. Education! Education! First education and aiterward—iiberty. My sisters and brothers went to school and we traveled in France and in other countries. You sece, we what you might call wealthy in those days, near Tsarskoe-Seloe. My father has really been ruined by the war It was a comfortable home and a happy one. “Sometimes would theatre. Russians like deep plays superficial, not burlesque. And I have seen the Czar in a box, like this”—she dropped her head listlessly to her hand “not interested in anything; so pale, 0 inattentivi Jence. street, America is 50 1id to were the not we g0 to “He was strange, that man—a man not normal. There is an old story that fifteen years ago he went to Japan and fell in love with a Japanese girl. Some one struck him on the head, a hard blow, and he wasn’t right since that. But it is a romantic tale. If it is true, who knows? “Whatever the reason, he lacked strength of character. Ile was bad for Russia. And his wife—she the curse of our land. She loved Ger- many always. When the German sol- diers were wiped out by our Russians the Czarina cried. When our Russians tell she did not care. men! Sent against the Germans with- out any guns, fighting only with their fists. 1t was murder. Our men were sold out to the Germans by their own officials. Murder! Murder! “Before the war things were better in our iand than they are now. It is a strange thing to say, yes? With all the grinding misery of the poor, with all the bowing down to the police and to royalty, Russia was less wretched then.” was Our brave, poor Sonia’s glance traveled to a photo- graph on the wall. It showed her lit- le sister, quaintly pretty in the cen- tury-old folk costume, the long, straight white robe falling to her slippered feet, the high, gallant headdress crowning her dark hair. Happy times, those, when Zinsaida went to dancing school and danced in the lovely ancient cos- tume of the Slavs. “So simple our people were and so happy when there was any chance,” she repeated; “so trustful and full of gratitude for favors. Our servants, if we were sick, would not desert. They nursed us and wept over us and it was not for mon What a pity our Czar was not good, not strong.” The sister made a quick, impulsive gosture of pity and impatience. “I remember the day of the revolution,” she cried. “The crowds and the shouting. They say now in Petrograd that the Crarina and her family—the little son also—are safe in England. But it is a rumor. Who knows the truth? “Russia is not ready yet for freedom. For my own part, from the dreadful things I have seen, it scems to me that a monarchy would be best; like Eng- land’s. The people must be educated before they can govern themselves. You think it strange that I, a young girl. should have such deep opinions. Ab, but I have seen so many things. T am aiready old. “If you go out upon the streets in Petrograd even now you cannot be sure that you will not be killed. There is shooting always. Two political parties quarrel; they begin to shoot; they kill any one who is near. Ma- chine guns shooting down the ave- nues! Oh, you cannot imagine the terror of life in Petrograd even yet! Terror and starvation and rags! Shoes $50 a pair. Bread $1 a loaf. Butter $2.50 a pound. “The police? There are cept armed bandits, who enter your house, search your rooms, take what money there is and go laughing. “Or Is there a house on well, if the fire engine company cares to answer the alarm all right. If not what does it matter? There is no authority to punish them. “Of ‘free love' such as the Bol- shevik made legal in othe. places, I do not know. It was not so in the capital. But 1 do know that no one thinks of marriage now nor of joy. Al is grief and anxiety. “In Petrograd today none, ex- there are many, many Germans. Yes, even now. Oh, what a pity that Kerensk the strength to hold the reins when they had been put into his hand. A g00d man, a wise man, but not strong enough for Russia. Why did he per- mit Trotzky and Lenine to enter the country? Tt was madness, it was dis- aster, it was an invitation to the Ger- mans, “Ang they came. At once after the ‘peace’ was made those Germans came, You should have seen them, swagger- ing by the dozen through our streets. A German officer stopped me one day” —the girl's deep blue eyes burned and her color “He asked me the way in German. In German! “I stood perfectly still and swered in my native tongue. speak Russian in Russia “For a moment he glared. “Then he smiled a little and re- peated his question in Russian. Yes, the Germans speak Russian. It was @ part of their game to learn our lan- guage and our weakness. rose. an- ‘We “For it seems to me that our great weakness was trusting everybody and trusting our own emotions. The Rus- sians are so emotional that if a man on the corner talks with eloquence and passion they believe. If a man on the next corner talks with eloquencex and passion on a different argument they will probably helieve him also. Thus, you see, Russia is handicapped because the emotions are so vivid while education has not awakened the power to reason carefully. If you cannot be of use to your friends n that poor. distracted land, it is bet- ter to go away so that your allow- ance of food and clothes may be saved. “But how to get away? Oh, the many times T tried. The many con- suls and friends I must have to speak in my behalf. Only for the fact that T possessed parents in America I could never have gained consent “Al last the left by way of permission came. I Finland. Unhappy & country, It is in a state growing rap- as bad as that of Russia. I mean it part of Finland in German con. trol. The German guards whom I met were angry because I was going to America. They called me ‘Ameri- kaner,” but there was an American in our party and he would ney be afraid. 3 “They let us through at length, ana we went by Sweden to England. Then across the Atlantic and"—a long sigh of relief—"here in quiet and safety.”