You hear of stories of great despondency,
of souls in the grasp of despair with little
cause for hope and even less for faith in
the power of prayer. Sgt. Douglas DeWitt
was in the throes of such a depression and
plunging deeper and deeper into the foxhole
of wartime misery until he stumbled half-
drunk into St. Etienne-du-Mont of war-ravaged
Paris, city of love run amok with Arian madness
and the ravished dreams of its populous.
DeWitt walked the aisle, removed the scarred
steel pot from his close-cropped head and took
a seat, the kneeler never an option with the
surfeit of wine inside him this dark night of
surcease in the ongoing battle toward fighting
the war. From his right shirt pocket he removed
the wrinkled letter from the crumpled envelope
and read it again for the two-thousandth time.
He laughed in bitter derision for the one-
thousandth.
DeWitt was waging the war and seeing friends
and fellow gladiators fall in the smog of gunfire
and the dust of crumbling concrete. He was
going to hell with little reason to believe he
would ever return and June, his December
bride of final furlough two years back had been
struck and killed by a school bus in quiet, serene
Merritsville.
His laughter had turned to grown man's sobbing
when Sister Justine put her strong, gentle hand
upon his shoulder.
"I have someone I want you to meet," she said
in perfect English and motioned to that someone
behind her. Through eyes blurred of drink and
crying he saw Simone.
"It is nice to meet you, monsieur," the girl
said, also in sure-spoken English. "I am a
student at the convent school of St. Etienne
and Sister Justine always assigns me to this
station of the Cross as she calls it."
"It is because of your kind and compassionate
way with those who wander inside as a last
recourse to their sadness," Sister Justine smiled.
"Simone is my little sister of 'hopeless cases,
of things nearly despaired of.' I quote from
the Prayer of St. Jude."
Sgt. DeWitt looked at the girl's understanding
azure eyes and her ballerina's form in Christmas
tweed and he knew.
He knew that someday this nightmare was going to
be miraculously ended, won by him and his wartime
allies, and Simone DeWitt would me at his side
for midnight Mass in the little town of Merritsville,
Pennsylvania.
You hear of stories of great despondency,
of souls in the grasp of despair with little
cause for hope and even less for faith in
the power of prayer. Sgt. Douglas DeWitt
was in the throes of such a depression and
plunging deeper and deeper into the foxhole
of wartime misery until he stumbled half-
drunk into St. Etienne-du-Mont of war-ravaged
Paris, city of love run amok with Arian madness
and the ravished dreams of its populous.
DeWitt walked the aisle, removed the scarred
steel pot from his close-cropped head and took
a seat, the kneeler never an option with the
surfeit of wine inside him this dark night of
surcease in the ongoing battle toward fighting
the war. From his right shirt pocket he removed
the wrinkled letter from the crumpled envelope
and read it again for the two-thousandth time.
He laughed in bitter derision for the one-
thousandth.
DeWitt was waging the war and seeing friends
and fellow gladiators fall in the smog of gunfire
and the dust of crumbling concrete. He was
going to hell with little reason to believe he
would ever return and June, his December
bride of final furlough two years back had been
struck and killed by a school bus in quiet, serene
Merritsville.
His laughter had turned to grown man's sobbing
when Sister Justine put her strong, gentle hand
upon his shoulder.
"I have someone I want you to meet," she said
in perfect English and motioned to that someone
behind her. Through eyes blurred of drink and
crying he saw Simone.
"It is nice to meet you, monsieur," the girl
said, also in sure-spoken English. "I am a
student at the convent school of St. Etienne
and Sister Justine always assigns me to this
station of the Cross as she calls it."
"It is because of your kind and compassionate
way with those who wander inside as a last
recourse to their sadness," Sister Justine smiled.
"Simone is my little sister of 'hopeless cases,
of things nearly despaired of.' I quote from
the Prayer of St. Jude."
Sgt. DeWitt looked at the girl's understanding
azure eyes and her ballerina's form in Christmas
tweed and he knew.
He knew that someday this nightmare was going to
be miraculously ended, won by him and his wartime
allies, and Simone DeWitt would me at his side
for midnight Mass in the little town of Merritsville,
Pennsylvania.
