--- title: Improvement Era description: Monthly periodical of the Mormon church, 1897 onward. This library holds the issues of November 1897 to December 1930. authors: - Moloney, Margaret C. collections: - periodicals tags: - magazine - improvement-era periodical: Improvement Era volume: 33 number: 8 published: 1930-06 publisher: Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations publisher_place: Salt Lake City language: en type: magazine reference: "Margaret C. Moloney, “Another Unknown Soldier,” *Improvement Era* 33, no. 8 (June 1930): 568–569." source: url: https://archive.org/details/improvementera3308unse transcription: Transcribed from the Internet Archive scan of each issue (the item for each issue is named in the issue's own source); unnumbered advertising leaves are omitted, printed page numbers are kept as page markers. identifier: improvementera3308unse start_page: 568 end_page: 569 rights: status: public-domain basis: US publication 1930 or earlier (published 1930-06) source: https://archive.org/details/improvementera3308unse publication_year: 1930 note: The Internet Archive item metadata carries a blanket "© Copyright by Intellectual Reserve, Inc." notice. The library owner judged it inapplicable because this issue was published in 1930, before 1931; a scan-level notice does not restore copyright. --- # Another Unknown Soldier Another Unknown Soldier By MARGARET C. MOLONEY TJOOLISHLY Stephen had -*- thought the fight over when the armistice was signed. Later, when he was discharged as cured from the hospital, with the sugges- tion that he take up some kind of work that would keep him out of doors he hadn't realized that he was going over the top again, alone this time, a shaking, weak buddy, with- out the heartening presence of his comrades — so firm was he in the belief that the fight was over. When the outside work had re- solved itself into a job of peddling women's wear from door to door the discharged soldier fought with every bit of his strength and cour- age for a footing in a strange world nothing at all like the jolly world he had quitted at his country's call. In that world Stephen had had a good job, a good home, and a very dear mother. DELLING articles they could not afford to busy women would have been no trick at all for the other Stephen, the lad with the engaging grin and the boyish assurance; but it was torture for this poor Stephen with shaky hands, and shell-shocked nerves — much harder than it had been to go over the top over there. The rooming house, too, was hard on this changed boy. This Stephen needed a home and a mother much more than the other Stephen had needed them. Yet with all the loneliness he was thankful that the dear little moth- er had not lived to see what her country had returned to her, pur- porting to be her boy — the glori- ous specimen of manhood she had loaned it. D AY after day Steph- en went forth to battle, ringing doorbells, flinching at the harsh- ness of disgruntled housewives, selling a little, but not enough to provide the nourishing food he needed. Night after night he came back to the lonely hall bedroom to battle with wakefulness — battling for rest and sleep that would bring forgetfulness. quarter that had meant breakfast and carfare was exchanged for the little red flower. To the woman's "thank you" Stephen managed a smile, then, with the poppy in his hand, he turned down the street. Block af- ter block he trudged, his heavy suitcase in one hand, and a poppy in the other, but he rang no door- bells. He had given up the fight. Finally, weariness drove him back to his hall bedroom. M: There was no one to notice that the boy was getting thinner, that the shaky hands were shaking more alarmingly, that the brave smile was faltering. Stephen, himself, did not realize that he was losing ground, so occupied was he in bat- tling for a footing. XI E didn't think about giving up the fight — until the morning he found himself facing a pert young woman with a basket of Flanders' poppies. Suddenly the courage that had stood by the sol- dier all through the war, and the battles since, deserted him. He stood staring at the flimsy little red flower the pert young woman was offering him, memories crowding in on him, exhausting the little strength he had. The woman was outraged at his hesitancy. "You wouldn't desert a buddy, would you?" Her harsh, unfeel- ing voice made the wounded sol- dier shudder. "They did not hesi- tate," she reminded him, in her parrot tone. Stephen's shaky hand went into his pocket and the ECHANICALLY he let himself in, picked up a letter on the mail desk, noted it was from the wholesale house, and with the help of the bannister managed the one flight of stairs. As he went down the hall he noticed 'there' d been a change of tenants in the suite adjoining his room. He was glad. Maybe the new people would not be so noisy, and he'd be able to sleep. As he passed the open door the new tenant, a motherly look- ing woman, placed a framed pho- tograph on the mantel, and look- ing up greeted Stephen. Stephen didn't return the greet- ing, he was staring at the picture. "My son," the woman ex- plained, sadly, yet proudly. "Bobbie Burton," said Stephen. His voice pounded in his ears, as he went down. Wi HEN Bobbie Bur- ton's buddy came to he was on a couch in the new tenant's room, and a gentle hand was bathing his face with cool water. "Well," she said when his eyes opened, and in her vioce was thankfulness. "I thought you never would wake up. Feeling better?" "We were pals," said Stephen, his eyes going back to the picture. "I know you were. Good old Steve he always called you in his letters. I got your name from the letter you dropped," she explained. "No, no," she said. "You stay right there. I was just getting a The Improvement Era for June, 1930 569 bite of lunch. Could you drink a cup of something hot?" "I don't know anything I'd rather have," Stephen said, and the way he said it made the woman hurry to get it started. "A nice way for Uncle Sam to treat our boys," she said bitterly when she came back. "Those poor little poppies and the wealth of this nation! I haven't the love for the old flag I once had, Stephen." OTEPHEN rallied to the defense of the flag. "But it isn't the flag. Uncle Sam didn't let us down, Mrs. Burton," he said earnestly. "It's just that politics gets the reins somehow." "You talk just like Bobbie," she smiled. "He'd never hear any- thing said about the old flag. Poor Bobbie! He never knew just how little the soldiers mattered — when they came back." "We've got to do something about it!" Stephen declared fever- ishly. "That's why I just must get a footing. I can't shirk my responsibility." "Well, now, we are not going to get into a political argument, you and me, Stephen," Mrs. Burton hastened to placate him. "We're going to have lunch, right now." She laid her hand against his cheek, and smiled down at him, and Stephen smiled back at her grate- fully. r T wasn't long before she returned with a tray well filled, which she placed on a table be- side the couch. "No, you don't get up," she laughed. "I insist on making an invalid of you. It makes me feel important." She piled the pillows up behind him till he was sitting up, put a plate in his lap, and soon they were chatting like old friends, about spring in the city, fwhat strange things rooming houses were, the crowds on the streets — everything and anything but — Bobbie Burton. They couldn't either one talk of him — yet. W HEN the luncheon was finished and Stephen looking much better was stretched out com- fortably again, obeying orders, Mrs. Burton carried the dishes away, and coming back brought her chair close. "We know each other pretty well now, don't we, Stephen?" she asked. "I know you are the nicest per- son I've met since I came home," said Stephen, earnestly. "Thank you," she smiled. "You're the nicest thing I've met since — Bobbie left me." She swallowed quickly, and hurried on. "I'm alone on that big farm, Stephen — except the help, you know. Do you think you could come home with me — and let me mother you till you get well? And then maybe you'd like the country well enough to stay on and take the management of the farm. I can't stand it there alone any longer. It's too awful, Stephen." She steadied herself. "Let's be allies, in this awful battle we're fighting alone." Stephen was sitting up now, in spite of protests. "I'd like to go — if I were sure you needed me," he said, "but you can see how useless I am." He held up the poor thin shaking hands, and then let them drop miserably. M) ' — but, haven't haven't * " .RS. Burton placed her hand over the shaky ones. "All you need is plenty of milk and eggs and good nourishing food, and I do need you. You knew Bobbie. You must know what it means to me to know — he'll never come back to me." She fought the tears back valiantly. Stephen still hesitated. 'You don't want to go," she said hopelessly. "I do," Stephen said why, Mrs. Burton, I money enough to- — I one cent, and I don't * * "Oh, Stephen," she cried, the tears having their way now, "if that's all, I'm so happy. I have money enough for both of us, and I'll be so glad to have someone to share it with again." "Well, just till I get my foot- ing," stipulated the stranded hero. "Of course," she agreed. "It won't be long before you're taking care of me. Would you do that, Stephen?" "Would I!" said Stephen, and the grin that had been lost for such a long time was right back in place again. Youth (Continued from page 567) Constance raised dewy eyes. The next moment they darkened. De- ceit— this was the result! Now she would have to tell. It WAS hard, but in a few stumbling words she made the explanation. She stood there, the laughter gone from her voice, the sparkle from her eye. She — she was twenty-nine. She looked up, expecting yet dreading to see his expression of contempt — con- tempt for a person who was try- ing to keep her youth. Instead the next moment she heard a low relieved laugh. "So is that all!" He was in excellent spirits. "But what if I don't object to twenty-nine!" "You!" Constance's eyes were wide. "But you see, a mere boy H .E laughed again. "I might be older than you think." "But a senior in high." "Did I ever say I was a senior?" Her eyes widened incredulously. "I was a senior ten years ago. I — " He laughed again. "I hap- pen to be twenty-nine, too. I'm coach at — " Suddenly Constance gave a little shudder. "You— you're Principal Smith's brother, the new Lincoln coach!" she gasped. "And I — I — " "Constance Randolph, mathe- matics teacher — I've seen your pic- ture, heard your praises sung to the— " "You— you knew— all the time!" she accused. He nodded. "As soon as I heard about the luncheon. You see, well — I was trying to get away from that same reception, myself. I thought you must be a paragon, and — " A light had begun to dance in Constance's eye, and she looked up saucily. "And am I not!" she demanded while her cheeks dimpled. His answer was conclusive!