>“I should like to go back to France to see what is growing, since so many American boys were planted there.”-George A. Thomy
Now the July sun was setting. The landing craft was lowering its ramp. The first row of men were moving in the shallow water, wading toward the beach. The waiting was over. This was land! Debris and evidence of struggle were everywhere, rows of sunken ships, burned tanks, varied masses of equipment. In contrast, there were neat stacks of boxed supplies, an ever moving freight of new supplies coming from the hustling men meeting the boats on the floating docks. Men moved about everywhere, shouting orders, keeping things moving, trying to allay confusion at the height of confusion. Then the men moved on toward a steep hill. Packs were heavy, hearts were heavy, and minds were wondering, trying to get reason out of chaos. In the distance, the constant rumbling of heavy guns punctuated the thoughts that the contest of blood was not that far away.
The long line of soldiers moved steadily and slowly up the hill, no looking back, looking down and trudging on with their heavy loads and heavy minds. Gradually, the hill began to level off, red clay houses and huts began to appear, dwellings that gave grim evidence that war had passed this way. Some stood without roofs, some showed gaping holes, all seemed desolate and abandoned. All showed signs of hasty abandonment, except one. One at the top of the hill displayed a human being. It seemed more of a mirage than real. Sitting on a rock in front of the rubble that had been a home, was an old, old woman in a long and dirty black dress, a long black shawl on her bent head. She sat there like a phantom, sitting feebly on the rock, waving a knarled and work-worn hand at each soldier as he passed, seeming to say thank you for coming, you will give me a home again.
Looking back for several moments at that pitiful, feeble, crushed old woman, the sight was saddening for by her actions, she was akin to us all. She was old. She was broken. She was brave. She was France!-GAT
Lt. George A. Thomy who spent seven months overseas in France and Germany and became critically injured on the battlefield is now at home. After five months in bed he is able to sit up some each day. We thought he might be able to write something of interest to you fellows, so, at our insistence, here is what he writes and we think it is good.
Dear Buddies,
When they first asked me to write to you, I told them I had nothing to say, that, since I am still somewhatunder the weather, I did not know what was going on. However, I have seen things that yet seem blessed and strange to me.
I have seen the sprouting green of springtime with its profusion of flowers untrampled by marching feet, I have seen children playing under watchful eyes of parents instead of begging for food, chewing gum or cigarettes, I have seen the High School kids pass as smiling boys and blushing girls with books instead of with knives and tommy guns or conniving wiles to deceive and trap the enemy, I have seen unbombed houses and farmers plowing in smooth fields without bomb craters, I have seen no blackout curtains and at night automobiles drive with headlights on, I have seen brave smiles and unrestrained laughter without being able to enter into the spirit myself, I have seen HOME, and it is strange for I have known, as you, the vastly different homes of other men!
My brother, Joe, used to say, “It's not the people who flash in the sunshine that keep this old world turning but the people who keep plowing – plowing, even when it's too wet to plow.”
I have seen thesteady-plowersstill at their unsung tasks as surely you are making the most of your hard duty. Many of your folks have come to see me because we went to school together or worked together or were friends. These meanings seem so far away but here are so important. I have been fortunate in many cases to be a symbol of you to your loved ones and they care so much and mostly wish to know what more they can do for you.
When tasks are grim and cruel, they breed so much bitterness in us. I used to say, and my men did too, when we heard of strikes, black markets,money-maniacs, etc., that what America needed was agood bombing!We were wrong because bombing would give theopportunistthe chaos on which he flourishes. Cutting a tree will rid you of its moss but you lose the tree. I would not want this community bombed. I would not want Seattle, New York, or New Orleans bombed because I knew men from there who will never see home again and a bomb may hurt their loved ones. I would not want any community bombed because it may injure asteady plower!
Do they understand, you ask? I answer by asking you, does a man understand how swimming feels without ever being in the water? I find myself thankful in some ways that they don't understand; for, in order to speak the same language they would have to experience the same things. They do understand enough to wish to help, to try to ease, to have faith enough, to try to build back your faith!
I have tried to leave thethornsout of therose bushbecause I know that those you love are many times your only consolations in misery. It is still a solid faith.
You will probably think that it's easy for me to write these things now. I will readily admit that you are a better soldier because you arestill plowing.Mine is the hope that my vague impressions have made your task lighter for a moment.
May God bless and protect you wherever you might be.
Sincerely,
George
Not alone for nations
Purged by the minds of a few
Who yoke the world relations
In war against the true,
For their thoughts are in the masses
Unmoved by an humble cry
From one without the classes
With a human tear or sigh.
Peace cannot be supreme
By country’s flag or shouts of men
Though they hold the nation’s dream
Still the man gets the strain of the sin.
Peace we pray its lot to be
Strong in its single, bless’ed touch
To foster souls like you and me
And still the nation gain as much.
Blessed must it be in single file
To grace the pitied mind of he
Who follows knowing least the while
The cause or why the fight must be.
So Peace we pray to walk with him
Who walks alone save Him who trod
To find a place on High for them
Who find no hope but with their God!
-George A. Thomy
It is night; the stars shine down
On khaki-clad figures standing near a hill
Talking of casual things
As close friends will.
But time is against them,
For all that could be said stays
Dried tears in the hearts.
Too many tasks, too many ways
To take little peoples' parts,
For a shadow must be erased
From the free soul of the world.
So they grasp hands, a hollow laugh
Rings through the night.
“Be a good soldier lad,
Fight the good fight.”
Foolings and words unsaid
In the manly handshake,
And the future now is read.
Friends part, one climbs the way
Showing the hill, the darkness, the stars,
A vacant flagpole far away
Waiting in the morning.
-George A. Thomy