Frederick Norton and I were new men in an old Section. We were new men
in an old crowd, consequently when we joined the Section we made no
effort to break into any old established circles. When off duty
together, he and I were accustomed to taking long walks across the
fields and to the towns behind the lines and on these walks I learned
to know what I already believed――that he was a man of exceptional
character, quiet, unassuming, modest; a gentleman in the best sense of
the word; a delightful companion, an ideal soldier. On one of our
walks we talked some of spending “permission” together on the coast of
Brittany.
I remember when I went to post for the first time Norton stepped up to
me and shook hands, wishing me luck and an interesting trip. That
established a custom between us. After that we always shook hands when
either one or the other of us started for post.
When we had been in the Section for a short while we were invited to
join three of the older fellows and to transfer our cots to a tent
underneath the trees just outside the grounds of a very beautiful
château, owned, I believe, by M. Chandon, of Möet & Chandon. We
naturally accepted the invitation with pleasure and thus we became
established as members of the old crowd. Formalities ceased from that
time.
The château had been converted into a hospital and at night a lighted
red cross over the large iron gates showed the entrance to approaching
cars.
We had some pleasant evenings under the trees when off duty, even
though we could hear the distant firing of the guns. We sang some, a
guitar and mandolin also furnished music. We listened to New Townsend
reminisce about his experiences in Belgium in the early part of the
war. Frank Farnham and “Red” Day occasionally sang a duet without much
persuasion. With difficulty “Farney” was prevailed on to yodel. On one
occasion Ned Townsend danced the dance of the seven veils by
moonlight. Sometimes we would hear the whirr of an aeroplane overhead.
The light in our tent would be extinguished by the first man who could
reach it and silence would reign.
So in spite of the war there were many pleasant moments. A spirit of
comradeship grew up between us all. Under such conditions, sharing the
same dangers, the some hardships, the same pleasures, we grew to know
each other better in a short space of time than would have been
possible in years in the ordinary peaceful walks of life.
Ned Townsend, the oldest man in point of service, remarked that the
best of fellowship had always prevailed in Section One――that it had
always been more like a club in that respect than a military
organization. He also mentioned casually that Section One had almost
always been lucky――very few casualties had marked its long, arduous
and dangerous career at the front.
On the afternoon of July 12 I saw Frederick Norton starting for the
front, and, following our custom, I went over to his car, shook hands
with him and wished him “good luck.” I told him the next time we were
off duty together we must take a walk over the neighboring hills to
inspect a windmill which had been erected about the time Columbus
discovered America. Then he was off to the town of Ludes――to the
little Swiss chalet hidden behind the trees.
That night was a bright moonlight night――an ideal night for avions.
Early in the evening those of us at Louvoise were having music under
the trees. A few convalescent soldiers from the château hospital were
sitting about in the grass, listening. As the moon came up and shone
through the trees I recall “Red” Day remarking: “The avions will be
over to-night,” and a short while after we heard the unmistakable
crash of an avion bomb down the road in the direction of Epernay.
It must have been pretty close to eleven o’clock that Frederick Norton
was standing in the back window of the little Swiss chalet at Ludes,
from which place he could get a glimpse of the battle lines through
the boughs of the trees. He was waiting for his call to go to the
front. His call was soon to come. He no doubt heard the whirr of the
approaching aeroplane overhead――he may have heard the deafening crash
of the bomb as it struck the ground, making a crater in the earth and
riddling the walls of the peaceful chalet. But then the sound of the
war was forever silenced――for him. A piece of the shell had cut his
throat――another had pierced his heart. He pitched forward, then fell
backward on the floor. He had answered his final call.
The following night I walked beside my friend Frederick Norton for the
last time. He was not laid to rest until after dusk because his burial
place was on the side of a hill in view of the enemy――in view of the
towers of the desecrated cathedral at Rheims――as fine a place as any
for a volunteer who had earned an honorable rest.
There were French officers of high rank in the gathering to pay homage
to the Volunteer American――a priest, a Protestant chaplain, his
friends in Section One――a squad of soldiers under arms. As we stood
there in the growing dusk a German aeroplane flew overhead and swept
the roadside nearby with its rapid fire gun. All looked up but no one
moved. The benediction being said, we walked slowly away.