Through These Fires (Musaicum Romance Classics). Grace Livingston Hill

have to come and obstruct the way? It was hard enough before the fires came. How were they to go through fire? Where was God? Had He forgotten them? Why did He allow this fire to come? It seemed a strange thought to come to Ben Barron as he crept stealthily through the shadows into the realm of light where the enemies' guns could so easily be trained upon them. But at the time he was occupied with accomplishing this journey toward the fire, with the firm intention of going through it. There was a job to be done on the other side of this wall of fire, and he must do it!

      And then there was the wall of fire, just ahead!

      "Here she comes!" yelled Sam. "Let's go!"

      Great tongues of flame, roaring and hissing and overhead falling flames! It seemed like the end. And yet Ben knew he must go through. Even if he died doing it, he must go. Those oil wells must be held. The Germans must not get them. Perhaps just his effort was needed for the victory. Perhaps if he failed others would fail also. The circle of defenders must not be broken! The strength of a chain was in its weakest link. He must not be that weakest link. His place in the formation must be steady, held to the end!

      How hot the flames! How far that heat reached! He had to turn his face away from the scorch to rest his eyes, or they would not be able to see to go on. And the flaming fields ahead would soon burn over. He must creep through as soon as they were bearable. He must not be turned back nor halted by mere hot earth. It was night, and the wind was cold. They would soon cool off enough for him to go on.

      These thoughts raced through his fevered brain, as he crept forward seeing ahead now beyond those dancing fires, the dark forms of other enemies, their guns surely aimed! He could hear the reverberations of their shots as they whistled past him. He had to creep along close to the ground to dodge those bullets.

      It seemed an eternity that he was creeping on in the firelit darkness, pausing when more fire came down from above, to hide behind a chance rock, or a group of stark trees that had not been consumed, gasping in the interval to catch a breath that seemed to escape from his control.

      At times there came the captain's voice, in odd places, at tense intervals, almost like the voice of God, and Ben's over-weary mind sometimes confused the two, so that they became convinced that it was God who was leading them on, speaking to them out of the fire.

      Perhaps it was hunger that made his head feel so light, but he had not thought of food. There were pellets in his wallet that he could take for this, but he was too tired to make the effort to reach them. If only he might close his eyes and sleep for a moment! But there was the fire, and the order was heard again, "Forward!"

      They must all pass through. There was no time to wait for the blistering ground to cool. They must pass through quickly. They had been taught their manner of procedure. Through this fire—and then the enemy beyond! There would be bullets. He could hear one singing close now! There would be another close behind that. Their spacing was easy to judge.

      There! There it came. A stinging pain pierced his shoulder, and burned down his left arm like liquid fire. But he must not notice it. He was one of a unit. If any in their battalion failed, then others might fail. They must not fail! That rich oil country must be held at any cost. The captain's words seemed to still be on the air, close to his ear, though it was a long time since they had been spoken. But they rang in his heart clearly as at first. "Forward! Through these fires."

      There came a moment with clear, ringing words of command when they struggled up to their feet and actually plunged through. The scorching heat! The roaring of the flames! The noise of planes overhead! The falling of more fire! All was confusion! Could they pass through?

      Afterward there was fierce fighting. No time to think of wounds and the pain stinging down his arm. It was only a part of his job. He had to hold those oil wells!

      The night was long, and there were more fires to cross. More fighting, the ground strewn with wounded and dying, nothing that one would want to remember if one ever got home. Home! Peace! Was there still such a place as home? Was there any peace anywhere?

      A strange fleeting vision of a quiet morning, he on his way somewhere importantly, a young schoolboy in a world that still held joy. A little girl in a blue calico dress that matched her eyes, swinging on a gate as he passed. Just a little, little girl, swinging on a gate and giving him a shy smile as he passed. He didn't know the little girl. The family were newcomers in the neighborhood, but he smiled back and said, "Hello! Who are you?" And she had answered sweetly, "I'm Lexie." And he had laughed and said, "That's a cute name! Is it short for Lexicon?" But she had shaken her head and answered, "No. It's Alexia. Alexia Kendall," she replied in quite a reproving tone.

      Strange that he should think of this now, so many years later, a brief detached picture of a child on a gate smiling, a cool morning with sunshine and birds, and a syringa bush near the little house that belonged to the midst of this scene of carnage, with the scorching smell of fire on his garments, and in his hair and eyebrows. Just a sweet little stranger in a quiet, bright morning with dew on the grass by the roadside, peace on the hills, and no walls of fire to cross! Strange! Ah! If he might just pause to think of that morning so long ago, it would rest him! But there were those wells, and more fire ahead, and the enemy, and overhead more planes! There came a flock of shells! The enemy again! Was he out of his head? This didn't seem real. Oh, why did these fires have to come? It was bad enough without them!

      But now he was in the thick of the fight again, and his vision cleared. Strange how you could always go on when there was a need and you realized what it meant if you lost the fight! He must go on! Could he weather this awful heat again, with the pain in his shoulder to bear? Back there on that dewy morning going from his home to school, what would he have said if anyone had told him that this was what he had to do to prove his part in the righteousness of the world? Would he have dared to grow up and go on toward this?

      But yes! He had to. A boy had to grow into a man. Did everyone have to go through a fire of some kind?

      That little girl in the blue dress? Where was she? He had never seen her again since that morning. His parents had moved away from that town, and he had never gone back. Strange that he should remember her, a child. Even remember her name. Alexia Kendall! Would he ever see her again? And if he did, would he know her? Probably not. But if he ever came through this inferno and went back to his own land he would try to find her, and thank her for having come with that cool, happy memory of a little girl swinging on a gate, carefree and smiling. No wall of fire engulfing her! Oh no! God wouldn't ever let that happen to a pretty little thing like that. Little Alexia! She must be safe and happy. Why, that was why he had to win this war, to make the world safe for such little happy girls as that one! Of course! The very thought of it cooled and steadied his brain, kept his mind sane.

      There! There came another shower of fire! Fire and dew side by side in his mind. Oh, these were fantastic thoughts! Was he going out of his head again? Oh, for a drop of that dew on the grass, that morning so long ago!

      "If I ever get through I'll thank her, if I can find her!" he promised himself. "I'll pay tribute to her for helping me think this thing through."

      Halfway round the earth, Alexia stood in a doorway, holding a telegram in her trembling hand, a cold tremor running over her as she read.

      In the house, the same little house with the white fence where she had swung on the gate so many years ago, her bags were all packed to go back to college for her final term, with a delightful, important defense job promised her as soon as she was graduated.

      And now here came this telegram right out of the blue, as it were, to hinder all her plans and tie her down to an intolerable existence with no outlook of relief ahead! This message might be laying the burden of a lifetime job on her slender shoulders. It was unthinkable! This couldn't be happening to her after she had worked so hard to get to the place she had reached.

      Alexia's father had died a year after she had swung joyously on the gate that spring morning when Benedict Barron had passed by and seen her. But Alexia's mother had worked hard, a little sewing, a little catering, an occasional story or article written in the small hours of the night when her body was weary, but which brought in a small wage, and she had kept her little family together.

      The