* * * * * *
Then, "I don't believe in God," said a pain-racked voice; "I know He
doesn't exist--because of the suffering there is. They can tell us
all the clap-trap they like, and trim up all the words they can rind
and all they can make up, but to say that all this innocent
suffering could come from a perfect God, it's damned
skull-stuffing."
"For my part," another of the men on the seat goes on, "I don't
believe in God because of the cold. I've seen men become corpses bit
by bit, just simply with cold. If there was a God of goodness, there
wouldn't be any cold. You can't get away from that."
"Before you can believe in God, you've got to do away with
everything there is. So we've got a long way to go!"
Several mutilated men, without seeing each other, combine in
head-shakes of dissent "You're right," says another, "you're right."
These men in ruins, vanquished in victory, isolated and scattered,
have the beginnings of a revelation. There come moments in the
tragedy of these events when men are not only sincere, but
truth-telling, moments when you see that they and the truth are face
to face.
"As for me," said a new speaker, "if I don't believe in God,
it's--" A fit of coughing terribly continued his sentence.
When the fit passed and his cheeks were purple and wet with tears,
some one asked him, "Where are you wounded?"
"I'm not wounded; I'm ill."
"Oh, I see!" they said, in a tone which meant "You're not
interesting.
Pages:
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360