The first bit of additional information was furnished by the press. A correspondent of one of the Boston dailies sent a brief dispatch to his paper describing the fighting at a certain point on the Allied front. A small detachment of American troops had taken part, with the French, in an attack on a village held by the enemy. The enthusiastic reporter declared it to be one of the smartest little actions in which our soldiers had so far taken part and was eloquent concerning the bravery and dash of his fellow countrymen. “They proved themselves,” he went on, “and French officers with whom I have talked are enthusiastic. Our losses, considering the number engaged, are said to be heavy. Among those reported as killed is Sergeant Albert Speranza, a Massachusetts boy whom American readers will remember as a writer of poetry and magazine fiction. Sergeant Speranza is said to have led his company in the capture of the village and to have acted with distinguished bravery.” The editor of the Boston paper who first read this dispatch turned to his associate at the next desk.
“Speranza? . . . Speranza?” he said aloud. “Say, Jim, wasn't it Albert Speranza who wrote that corking poem we published after the Lusitania was sunk?”
Jim looked up. “Yes,” he said. “He has written a lot of pretty good stuff since, too. Why?”
“He's just been killed in action over there, so Conway says in this dispatch.”
“So? . . . Humph! . . . Any particulars?”
“Not yet. 'Distinguished bravery,' according to Conway. Couldn't we have something done in the way of a Sunday special? He was a Massachusetts fellow.”
“We might. We haven't a photograph, have we? If we haven't, perhaps we can get one.”
The photograph was obtained--bribery and corruption of the Orham photographer--and, accompanied by a reprint of the Lusitania poem, appeared in the “Magazine Section” of the Sunday newspaper. With these also appeared a short notice of the young poet's death in the service of his country.
That was the beginning. At the middle of that week Conway sent another dispatch. The editor who received it took it into the office of the Sunday editor.
“Say,” he said, “here are more particulars about that young chap Speranza, the one we printed the special about last Sunday. He must have been a corker. When his lieutenant was put out of business by a shrapnel this Speranza chap rallied the men and jammed 'em through the Huns like a hot knife through butter. Killed the German officer and took three prisoners all by himself. Carried his wounded lieutenant to the rear on his shoulders, too. Then he went back into the ruins to get another wounded man and was blown to slivers by a hand grenade. He's been cited in orders and will probably be decorated by the French--that is, his memory will be. Pretty good for a poet, I'd say. No 'lilies and languors' about that, eh?”