Though my leave had not expired, I decided to return to the front with
Townsend, “Red” Day and “Farney.” The Section had moved down into
Lorraine, in the foot hills of the Vosges, the land of Joan of Arc. We
found our Section in the town of Aillianville. There a barn had been
converted into a dining room and up in the loft some of the men had
placed their cots, while others were billeted in the homes of the
townspeople――plain but wonderfully kindhearted peasant folks whose
dress was in keeping with the surroundings and who splashed around the
muddy streets in their wooden sabots――and the streets were often
muddy, for it rained a great deal of the time. But in spite of
frequent rains it was none the less delightful here. It was a most
pleasant contrast to the desolation in front of Verdun――to see
unmolested forests, the foliage turning to autumn colors――to see cows
grazing in the fields――sometimes a dog on a frolic, barking at their
heels――to see peasant women sitting in the fields with their knitting
and keeping a watchful eye on the cattle――and the war not so very many
miles away.
Ned Townsend and I lost no time in finding quarters in the home of a
peasant. The house, which could not have been built later than the
seventeenth century, had two rooms and a garret. One room with open
fire place served as a kitchen, living room and bedroom all combined.
A bed was built in the wall and during the day was hidden by curtains.
Here slept the patron Tourgant and his wife. Townsend and I took the
other room, which had two beds in it. One of the window panes was
gone, but this was none the less luxury. Our work was light and we
enjoyed the life to the fullest extent. We could retire at night with
a sense of security that we were not likely to be disturbed before
morning. The house stood under the shadow of an ancient church and if
we did lie awake, we could hear the clock in the steeple chiming off
the quarter hours. It was sometimes pleasant to awaken in the middle
of the night to hear the clock striking the hour and then to fall
asleep again with the thought that there were some hours left for
undisturbed rest.
It was usually Madame Tourgant, with wrinkled face, bronzed like a
gipsy, who called us in the morning and set a cup of hot coffee by our
beds. Sometimes when we came in late, chilled and wet with the rain,
Monsieur Tourgant would get out of bed, pull on a few clothes, kick
the dying embers of the faggots on the hearth into life and heat a cup
of coffee for us. And so if there was some work to do, there was time
for rest and relaxation.
In this country, it had once been the sport of kings to hunt the wild
boar. Now the kings were otherwise engaged, but it was still the sport
of peasants and poilus. Kings do not control all the sport there
is――especially now.
One night we went out on a wild boar hunt, skirting the edge of a
thick forest, not far from Aillianville down in the direction of the
ancient town of Grand. Midnight, our hunt being unsuccessful, we sat
down on the ground in the moonlight and enjoyed the feast which we had
brought with us. We did not have another opportunity to go boar
hunting because of the rains, which caused Ned Townsend――or was it
“Red” Day?――to complain that the ground was too wet to sit on.
But if we had been unsuccessful on our hunt, our patron M. Tourgant
fared better, bringing one in a couple of days later and the following
night we were invited to sit around the open fireplace while Madame
Tourgant put slices of it to sizzling over the faggots on the open
fireplace. She prepared other things for the supper too. Some French
soldiers that we knew were with us and I am sure ’most any king would
have relinquished his crown for a night, to have sat under those old
blackened rafters and enjoyed the sport of ordinary mortals.
Sometimes in Aillianville we would drop into the little “Cheval Blanc
Café” to write letters or sit up at the open log fireplace with Madame
Julie and her husband the patron and while drying our feet which were
usually wet, read the romances of Alexandre Dumas and the like;
sometimes the butcher maidens from the neighboring town of Grand would
come driving along with their butcher wagon and from them we would
procure a slice of ham or bacon which Madame Julie would cook for us
with an omelette. Sometimes in the early evening, we played dominoes
in the “Cheval Blanc” for stakes which were not ruinous. In the early
evening Madame Julie’s niece Marie might drop in to help her with the
dishes.
Marie was a cripple girl, but she was none the less the queen of all
Aillianville. Her father owned his own comfortable little home and was
the possessor of more cows than anyone else in the town. Marie’s
cheeks were bronzed from the sun while watching her father’s cows. Her
teeth shone white when she smiled. She had a noble brow and a regal
face. Given the opportunity of two or three years in a fashionable
finishing school, provided she did not become too highly educated,
Marie could have been transplanted to Madison Avenue or Rittenhouse
Square and scored a decided hit. I have it from one who lives not far
from Madison Avenue and confirmed by one who lives not far from
Rittenhouse Square. Marie will probably marry a poilu returning from
the war with one arm and a Croix de Guerre and live happily ever after
in the peaceful town of Aillianville.
Sometimes sitting by the log fire in the “Cheval Blanc,” we would hear
the clank of wooden sabots on the stone pavement outside, the door
would open and old Jacques, the blacksmith of rugged voice and jet
black beard, would bluster in for his bottle of wine.
We lived with the peasants and loved them. They were kind, polite,
chivalrous――they were real.
On occasion, there was music in the evening in the “Lion d’Or Café”
further down the street. One night, toward the end of October, we held
a dance in the “Lion d’Or.” A guitar and a mandolin furnished the
music. The villagers came around in their wooden sabots. French
soldiers in their blue uniforms were there. Back in the shadow of a
corner, a group of officers sat enjoying the scene, no doubt wishing
they might take an active part. In the course of the evening, a young
fellow was lifted on a table and sang “Madelon,” a song popular with
the French just then.
It was pretty close to midnight when a message came in that one of our
cars had broken down along the road about ten miles out. A relief
party was organized and the dance came to an end.
It had been snowing in the late afternoon and evening. When we went
out of the Lion d’Or the moon was breaking through the clouds, and the
streets, tile roofs of the houses and the church steeples were white
with snow.
Not one of us who was not a little sad a few days later on receiving
orders to move from the town of Aillianville to the ancient town of
Beaufromont, built on the side of a steep hill. We were glad that the
villagers also expressed sorrow at the parting. Some of those plain
peasant women were kind enough to weep a little as they smilingly
waved “Au ’voir” to us.
Our old patron, the boar hunter Tourgant, was so anxious to bid us a
fitting farewell when we started in the early morning that he stayed
up most of the night. When we moved out of the town he was asleep in
the blacksmith shop of old Jacques of rugged voice and jet black
beard.
As we drew up in line outside the village, someone commemorated the
departure in verse:
Farewell, my Aillianville, in fair Lorraine,
Town where sun shines through the rain,
The “Cheval Blanc,” the “Lion d’Or,”
“Au ’voir,” farewell forever more.
I was with you when woods were brown,
When boars were hunted on the down,
When log fire crackled on the hearth
And in the evening there was mirth
And music in the town I love so well,
Oh, Aillianville, au ’voir, farewell.
During our stay in Aillianville, Section One, American Field Service
Volunteers, was taken over by the American army and there ceased to be
any volunteer ambulance service. My work was done, but the Section
being short of men I agreed to stay on indefinitely until new men came
on.
One day, to be exact, Thanksgiving morning, outside the town of
Neufchateau, on the road to Nancy, I saw some French troops drawn up
on review. A band was playing at their head. By a strange coincidence
I had heard that same band playing once before back in Houdainville as
those same troops were advancing for the big offensive in front of
Verdun.
On this Thanksgiving morning, the review being over, the men stacked
arms and walked about the field. One of the soldiers walked over to
where I was talking with some friends. He wore a steel helmet, but
underneath the visor I could see a scar across his forehead and there
was a scar on his cheek. He asked me if I remembered him and I was
obliged to confess that I did not. He then informed me that on
September second, in front of Douaumont, when he had received these
two scars, I had carried him back. No wonder I had not recognized him.
[Illustration: Rice Purdy
In Front of Verdun]
Then as we stood there I heard another band playing in the distance.
It grew nearer and nearer till at last I saw an American flag rising
over the brow of the hill and back of it swinging along the road four
thousand men in khaki.