Radio and television mirror (Jan-June 1942)

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I'm sure to get leave soon," Chris hazarded as the dread moment for leaving drew near. Sightlessly Mary stowed a razor into the pocket of his bag and snapped the latter shut. "Of course." "I'll wire you as soon as I know." Chris eyed her anxiously. "Mary — look at me." She raised wretched eyes to his. "I'm not going to be silly about all this. I know lots of men are leaving. . . . Oh, Chris!" She broke suddenly and went into his arms. "Take care of yourself. Promise you'll take care of your self and come back to me." "I will, sweet," he comforted her huskily. "And it will be soon." With a last kiss, half savage, half infinitely tender, he was gone. Through the days and weeks that followed Mary clung to those words, "It will be soon," said them over and over again fiercely and shared them with Chris' mother with whom she went to live. Chris had asked her if she didn't want to go home to her own people while she waited for him. But Mary had said, "No, Chris, I'm a Canadian now. Remember? . . . And maybe," she added softly, "your mother will be lonesome, too." The two women found great companionship together in the old Jordan home, roomy and gracious, in Canada's city of cathedrals. But Mary could not conquer her growing fears as time passed with no word from Chris. When at length a note came from him, full of affection but hinting at the pressure under which they were operating, Mary poured out her heart to him in a letter: "Chris, my darling, "At long, long last your letter came this morning. I read it a dozen times, then read it to your mother, leaving out only little parts that were specially our own. ... I know it's silly of me to worry, but I had a rather terrifying dream last night. I was standing out somewhere in the universe and calling to you. I called and called but you didn't answer. So, darling, the first chance you have to send word of any kind — preferably a telegram— please indulge a very foolish wife and tell me you're all right. . . ." 'T'HREE days later the doorbell rang ■• in the middle of the night. Mother Jordan ran down to answer it — a telegram for Mrs. Christopher Jordan. Hesitantly she awakened Mary, who, far from being alarmed, bounded up joyously. This was the telegram she had begged Chris to send. With eager fingers she tore it open and started to read. The words did a macabre dance before her eyes. She tried again: "We regret to inform you that your husband Christopher James Jordan was killed in the line of duty. ..." Duty. Her mind fastened on the last word as it spun on a pin wheel of lights within her brain. In the line of duty. The pin wheel enlarged itself to carry the extra words, spinning faster and faster. KILLED! With a crash of lights the pin wheel broke and Mary sank to the floor senseless. Hours later — eternities later, for all she knew — Mary looked up through a blur at the sad anxious face of Mother Jordan and the kindly one of Dr. Mason, the Jordan family physician. When it became evident she was coming out of her coma, the two stared across at each other with infinite relief. She'll be all right, their look said. But Mary wasn't all right. For days an apathetic bitterness lay hold of her, broken only by periodic stabs of pain whenever she thought of Chris. At length after an earnest consultation with Mrs. Jordan, Dr. Mason sent for Mary. "My child," he began carefully, "I'm going to tell you something which may — I hope — make things easier for you. When you collapsed ten days ago, I discovered certain symptoms that indicated more than the usual conditions resulting from simple emotional shock." Mary stared at him dully. "What are you trying to say?" "You're going to have a baby." There was absolute silence in the room. Then Mary said flatly, "It isn't true." "Yes, Mary, it is," Dr. Mason replied gently. Slowly realization took hold of her. "And you say this will make things easier!" She glared accusingly at the Doctor and Mrs. Jordan. "His child — to be born months after Chris is dead — to be taken one day as Chris has been taken. His child — to be brought into this meaningless chaos of terror and destruction. I wish to God it weren't true!" "But, my dear, this is a reason for you to live," Mrs. Jordan urged. "I had a reason. Chris was my reason— all I asked. And he was taken from me!" Mary's voice rose hysterically. "Well, let me be taken, too. I don't want to live, I don't want his child to live— not in this world!" She turned and ran from the room, her hard-born sobs filling the halls of the old house until the door of her bedroom shut them away. In her room Mary fiung herself on the bed and prayed for oblivion, in whatever form it might be, as a victim of the BOB WALKER — who ploys Davy Dillon in Moudie's Diary, heard Thursday evenings on CBS. Bob's great grandfather was one of the founders of Salt Lake City, Utah, and Bob was born there twenty-three years ago. Even when he was in school, he wonted to be an actor, and came to New York as soon as he could after graduation to study at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts. First, though, he had to earn money, and he worked at several jobs — cleaning strawberries in an ice cream factory, being an engine-boy oboard a freighter, and reading scripts for different dramatic and literary agencies. Bob plays tennis and golf, and his greatest ambition right now is to learn to ploy the piano. 68 RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR