 The Mutual Broadcasting System in cooperation with Family Theatre Incorporated presents Song for a Long Road, starring William Holden, Brandon Marshall and Marvin Miller. Gene Lockhart is your host. More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of. Did you ever stop to think how important a family is? Did you ever stop to think what would happen to our country if the family life of this nation should cease to exist? I'm sure most of us can look back to a good father and mother. We learned the meaning of sacrifice from them. We learned the meaning of courage and patience and fidelity. Our fathers and mothers were old-fashioned, so they say. Our mothers brought us up at their knees. Our fathers brought us up sometimes over their knees. They taught us decency, respect. They gave us ideals. They did all this because they were God-fearing people, our parents. They were prayerful. Well, we still need decency and respect. We still need patience and sacrifice. Above all, we need fidelity. Fidelity to each other, to our country and to God. Those are the ideals which made our country great. And those are the ideals which can keep our country great. That's why we say we need prayerful families. Pray as a family. You'll find that prayer will bring peace and happiness to your home. Yes, a world of prayerful homes would indeed be a peaceful and happy world. This is the way the story should begin. Aline, are you listening? Yes, I'm listening. Aline, will you marry me? I most certainly will not. Oh, but a poet is made of stern stuff. And so we shall try once more. This is the way the story should begin. Aline, look at me. I'm looking. Will you consent to be my wife? Your wife? Certainly not. But how does the poet say it? If at first you don't succeed, try, try again? Aline, listen please. I'm listening. Well, look at me. I'm looking. Will you, uh, would it be asking you too much to become Mrs. Joyce Kilmer? Well... This is the way the story should begin. And this is the way it did begin. One beautiful day in June 1908. For he said himself, Joyce Kilmer did, he said, you know, Aline, I can understand the interpretation which makes marriage the end instead of the beginning of a splendid adventure. There should ever be the perfect novel of love that it would begin rather than end. And they were happily married. And, and should I add, and they lived happily ever after? Well, now, that would depend on one's interpretation. Naturally. That would depend on one's interpretation of happiness. For example, Aline, are you happy? Oh, I was never happy, Joyce. A quiet home here in New Jersey. Yes, I know, but, but, hang it, I was never meant to spend the rest of my life teaching Latin to a bunch of high school students. Why, the very best of people are professors. Oh, nothing but declensions and conjugations and, well, it's positively demoralizing, I tell you. Now, now, if I had my way, I'd... Now, Aline, you don't have to look at me like that. Oh, go on. If you had your way, you'd sell poetry the rest of your life. Yes, for a dollar a pound, or perhaps two dollars a pound. Stop squeezing my hand. Slander your hands and soft and white as petals of moon-kissed roses. Why, the old ladies will swoon when they read my stuff. The critics will come clamoring across the ocean. Joyce Kilmer, Port Laureate of America. America. Aline, I shall develop a beastly mustache and long, dirty fingernails. Oh, Joyce. Now, look, I'll leave it up to you. You leave it up to me. I'll let you decide whether your husband is to stagnate henceforth and forever on the swamps of irregular Latin verbs or whether he is to take root on the immortal hill of poetry. The baby's crying. Your answer. The milk's in the icebox. Speak, whole vision, speak. Stop squeezing my hand. Nothing so exquisite as a slight hand. Could Raphael or Leonardo... The baby'll have hair cups. Oh, and answer, Princess. Shall we or shall we not go to New York? Well, I... I knew you'd say yes. Is that you, Joyce? Yes. Soon? Oh. And how is my poet Laureate of America? Oh. Tired? Come on. Sit down here. Here. There now. Aline, are you happy? Why do you keep asking me that question? Oh, it's the kind of a question a man has a right to ask his wife. Come on now and sit beside me. Look at me. I'm looking. You know, selling books in a store for $8 a week isn't exactly a thrilling occupation, is it? Joyce, I've told you it's going to take time getting started. You just can't come into New York and expect publishers to... Well, to eat up your work? No. It takes time and patience. You know yourself, poets never start off by being poets. Oh, is that so? Well, what do they start off by being? Oh, street cleaners, assistant clerks and soap factories. And, um, even book salesmen. Now, that's just my point, Aline. I'm not even a good book salesman. Too much arithmetic connected with the confounded thing. Now, what is arithmetic to do with selling books and stop squeezing my hand? Arithmetic, my little princess. Arithmetic has a lot to do with selling books, as Charles Scribner's sons will soon discover. Oh, what happened now? Oh, I sold a rare book today. Sold it for $1.50. Well? I made a slight mistake. The manager told me the book was not worth $1.50. No? No. It was worth $150. Oh. And so an aspiring young poet and his little princess and their babies managed to live in New York on the magnificent sum of $8 a week. And did they live happily ever after? Well, that depends upon one's interpretation of happiness. These are my sentiments, Aline. Joyce, you know, you've changed so much in three years. Yes, I suppose. But a man may be forgiven the sin of getting tired at times. I'm tired, Aline. I know. And there are thousands, tens of thousands like us who are tired. I've seen them in subways and street cars and seen them outside of offices waiting for interviews. Nervous, tired people who stare at the wall of your head when you look at them. You're in a mood, Joyce. And it's a fact, I tell you. The world is lopsided with selfishness. There are people walking the streets who don't know where they're going to get their next crust of bread. And do you think your socialist friends can solve the problem? Socialists. The socialist might have the right idea. Well, it's getting late, Joyce. You better get some sleep. Ah, there's too much time for sleeping. Writing for the socialist paper again? Oh, I know what you're thinking. I'm just a naughty little radical with a pen in my hand. You might take up typing. I won't take up typing. Joyce, aren't you getting a little loud lately? Not half loud enough for a lopsided world. Oh, well. What are you doing? Saying my prayers. You're not going to say your prayers. Joyce, what in the name of Heaven? Heaven's God. There is no God. Do you hear? Joyce. There is no God. All the good things a man holds precious in this life. All the long cherished hopes and dreams. All the faith that a man has ever placed in his God and himself and his family. All these are candlelight for living. But there are times when the flame of faith wavers. When the flax begins to smoke and smolder. And then it takes only the slightest, the very slightest. It happened this afternoon, doctor. This is your second child, Mrs. Kilmer? Yes, doctor. How old? Nine months. Hmm. Well, I'm sorry. There's not very much we can do now. The germ has already struck. Yes, doctor. Infantile paralysis is a strange affliction. We don't know where it will stop or when. The only thing you can do now is wait and hope for the best. Yes, doctor. Elaine, Elaine, where is she? Where's Rose? She's in here, dear. So it's... Infantile paralysis. My baby, my little girl is going to be paralyzed. And there's nothing we can do, Joyce. There's nothing we can do? Nothing? Yes, the time comes when the candle flame of faith wavers. When human flax smokes and smolders. But comes the clean, healing breath of pain. And smoking flax leaps to flame. And man lives by blessed candlelight again. Joyce. Yes? I didn't know how you were going to take it. I was afraid that you... It's simple and clear now. You can't build a home on rhyming couplets. Poetry. You build it out of flesh and blood and spirit. And faith in God. You build it out of pain and love. And at night I know what love is. It's poignant and accustomed pain. Help my baby. Heal her. But even... Even if my child should never walk again... I know this. I know she's led me home. And a little child had led him. Aline, Aline, I've got it, I've got it. What on earth, Joyce? Behold your beloved spouse. Ouch, oh, your whiskers. Aline, look at me. I'm looking. Now good. Now you have the unusual privilege of being a book reviewer. They've accepted my poem for the Pathfinder. Moods Magazine, Aline. They're going to publish my verse. Aline, another one. Can I write the boss figures you deserve a spot in the Times Magazine section? You mean permanent? Right, doing interviews. Interviews? Wonderful. And would you mind giving the American public your views on Oh Henry, Mrs. Gerald? Oh Henry? Yes. Some people call Oh Henry the 20th century Balzac. Some call him the American mobasin. Now what would you call him? I'd call him a pernicious influence. Oh, this is the life. It's quiet here in the hills, Aline. Man couldn't want much more in his life. A home for children. A wife who's beautiful with black ribbons at her throat. A world full of sight and sound. The world is good. Except I watch her lying there on the grass. My little paralyzed daughter. Sixteen years the doctors say, Joyce. Yes, sixteen years before she can walk. Oh, that's a long time. Yes, it is. Still, I... I was just thinking. I was just thinking how light a cross can be. When the cross you're carrying is for someone you love. When love is the burden. I was thinking how tightly the arms of a cross can bind a husband and wife. For more than sixteen years, Joyce? For always. Nothing could ever separate us, Aline. Nothing? Nothing. Come here and look at me. I'm looking. You're a very young wife. Am I? Mm-hmm. And lovely. What's troubling you? Nothing. Nothing at all? Oh, Joyce. My little princess is younger than her babies. And stop crying in my ear. It tickles. What's the matter with you? I just wanted to hear you say it again. Say what? Say nothing can ever separate us. All right. Nothing can ever separate us. All right. I know what you're going to say. Look at me like that, Aline. Go on and say it. You're going to war. I suppose I'm unreasonable, but... Being a woman, I suppose I'll never understand this man's world of war. It's not that I'm afraid of pain, Joyce. Three weeks ago, little Rose died. And last night, I bore you another son. Pain? I don't fear pain. It's only... I know. I know. If I could only be sure that we could have the years ahead together. Thousands are saying that tonight, Aline. But remember, I told you once, nothing can separate us. Say it again, Joyce. Neither pain nor sorrow nor distance can separate us. Say it again, Joyce. Neither suffering nor heights nor depth can separate us. War horizon. Seating to the sixth area. I think your name is Kilmer. Right. Well, I... I didn't join. I adopted the fighting 69th. I'm Irish. Irish? With a name like Kilmer? Half Irish. Half Irish? Well, my great, great, great, great grandfather was Irish. Proceeding to the sixth area. And this was no man's land. Yes, this is no man's land. Little Eddie couldn't believe it was no man's land. This afternoon, he said to me, Kilmer, it gets awful quiet around here. But then... Just like that it came. In the afternoon. A clumsy, wobbling torpedo shell. Something dangerously casual that catches a man tying his shoe or opening a pack of cigarettes. It caught Eddie. It caught Kennedy and Sage and Finn and Galvin and Sullivan. And 21 of them. Buried them alive in a dugout. Donovan called the engineers. Called everybody. But the soft earth kept slipping in on them. I saw the engineers crying this afternoon. So I wrote it for Little Eddie. And the rest of them. And the chaplain read it under the trees. And Stokes was trembling when he reached for the bugle. In a wood they called the Rouge Bouquet. There is a new-made grave today. Built by never a spade nor pick. Yet covered with earth ten meters thick. There lie many fighting men. Dead in their youthful prime. Never to laugh nor love again nor taste the summertime. For death came flying through the air and stopped his flight at the dugout's stair. Now over the grave abrupt and clear three volleys ring. And perhaps their brave young spirits hear the bugle sing. Go to sleep. Go to sleep. Slumber well where the shells screamed and fell. Let your rifles rest on the muddy floor. You will not need them anymore. Dangers past. Now at last. Go to sleep. Major Donovan, Major Donovan. Well, what is it Kilmer? I hope I'm not troubling you sir. Not at all. I heard we're moving up tomorrow. That's right. Well, your battalion is going to lead the way. You'll pick up a lot of information, don't you? Well, I'm in the intelligence section, Major. Well? I was wondering if you couldn't arrange for me to go along. I don't see how I can possibly do that. But Major, you do need a battalion adjutant. All right. All right. You win. Thank you, sir. I hope you can make out this writing, Aline. I have a picture before me tonight. I can almost hear you speaking again. With a voice coming across the white roads of France. Unlike the voices of all the women of the world, it keeps saying. Say it, Joyce. Say nothing can separate us. Aline, you won't mind my writing this. I've never quite recovered from the wonderment of being husband to a wife. You're always before me. And with me. In my heart and brain. But it's dangerous to write this. It draws so tight the cords that bind me to you. Well, we ought to be together sometime. Inevitably. And soon in the terms of eternity. For we are absolutely one. Incomplete apart. And in heaven is completeness. How unhappy must lovers be who have not the gracious gift of faith? And people and things at home? I'd like to be there again. I'd like to see Kenton and Deborah and Michael and Christopher. And some dry sherry. And a roast of lamb with mint sauce. And Blackwood's magazine. I'd like to see a straw hat and a circus. And most of all, I'd like to see you. Goodbye now. I have some work to do. And love me exceedingly. Keep low, Kilmer. Yes, sir. Sitting pretty up there on the ridge. Got us in the clear, you think? Wow! You better be careful, Major. Bring your head, Kilmer. Watch yourself. Just remember the manual, Kilmer. Keep flat. And if you got a move, move fast. Machine gun nest is up there. Over the ridge of the hill. Picking up our boys like pigeons. Well, what do you say, Kilmer? Do you, don't you? You don't have to move. You don't want to. You have no orders to move. But you're gonna move, Kilmer. Just crawl like this. Just like this, to the top of the hill. And all you have to do is take a look, Kilmer. And spot that nest. That's all. Suppose they'll be waiting for me. Just as soon as I lift my head over the ridge, they'll... And remember, every second you lose may mean a life. Here you are, Kilmer. Here's the ridge. I wonder if it's still barking. Well, that's all right. That's all right. Here you go. Big breath, Kilmer. You're gonna see something right now. Here goes. They found him lying still. And his eyes were looking out over, away over the ridge. They buried him where the scarlet poppies nod by the river Orc. And so, Sergeant Joyce Kilmer, patriot and poet, died. Wait a minute, mister. Oh, what is it you wish? You didn't answer the question for the people. What question? The question you've been asking all night. Did they live happily ever after? Excuse me, there's been a slight interruption at the... Exactly. Who are you, sir? Who am I? I am the interruption. I'm the question lingering on the tongues of millions. I'm the voice of the kids who fight the wars. The voice of the guys who screamed across the continents and across the world. I'm the voice of human pain. And they're trying to choke me again with speeches and promises. They're choking me with new headlines, new suspicions, new hates. Did they live happily ever after? Did they? Who will answer the question? Trees. There is a tree planted on a hill. It is a dead tree which has blossomed with the terrible contradiction of man's planting. For trees were never meant to blossom with blood. God, our Father, did they live happily ever after? Can we live happily ever after? Did one soldier die in vain on a hill with half his songs unsung? Have thousands died? And will other thousands die in vain on other hills? Or is it possible, Lord, that this is the pruning? Can it be possible that in our days we shall at least see love? Love of neighbor stripped the spikes of cruelty and suffering from the crossbeams of a world in contradiction? Grant that it be so. Be thou the patience in our planning and the humility in our heart. And grant, good Lord, that all men, the men of the north and south and east and west, may rest always in the soft shadow of peace where trees are not crosses, but living things that look at God all day and lift their leafy arms to pray. A soldier poet would have it so. Then shall all men live happily ever after. You don't have to think very long to see there's a lot for which each of us has to be thankful tonight. We're thankful to be alive, thankful for our homes, for our families, for the peace and happiness we have together. Yes, and if there should be unhappiness and misunderstanding in your home and doubt and mistrust in the world, it's because there are too many of us who think we're able to do the job alone, to do it by ourselves. We can't. We need God's help. We need the help of prayer. If enough of us are really interested and earnest about world peace, we'll take time out for prayer. So make family prayer a daily family practice in your home and you'll discover what so many already know. A family that prays together stays together. Before saying good night, I'd like to thank William Holden for his performances, Kilmer, Brenda Marshall for her portrayal of Eileen and Marvin Miller for his narration. Our thanks also to Timothy Mulvey for writing tonight's play and to Max Tehr for his music. Mel Williamson directed and John Ryder produced the program. Others who appeared in our play tonight were Doris Butler, Hal Sawyer, Gene Layton, Peter Rankin, and Don Morrison. Next week our family theater star will be Maureen O'Hara, Regis Toomey and Frank Phelan in brass buttons. This is Gene Lockhart saying good night and God bless you. The series of the Family Theater broadcast is made possible by the thousands of you who felt the need for this kind of program, by the mutual broadcasting system which has responded to this need by the actors and technicians of the motion picture and radio industries. This program is heard overseas through the facilities of the United States Armed Forces Radio Service. This is the Mutual Broadcasting System.