Since I wrote you last, Padre, I have been in the trenches--real, live
trenches, not the faded, half-filled-up ghosts of trenches where men
fought long ago. I had to give my word not to tell or write any one just
where these trenches are, so I won't put details in black and white,
even in pages which are only for you and me. I keep this book that you
gave me in my hand-bag, and no eyes but mine see it--unless, dear Padre,
you come and look over my shoulder while I scribble, as I often feel you
do! Still--something might happen: an automobile accident; or the bag
might be lost or stolen, though it's not a gorgeously attractive one,
like that in which Mother Beckett carries Jim's letters.
It was the day after Lunéville and Gerbéviller. We started out once
again from Nancy, no matter in which direction, but along a wonderful
road. Not that the scenery was beautiful. We didn't so much as think of
scenery. The thrill was in the passing show, and later in the
"camouflage." We were going to be given a glimpse of the Front which the
communiqués (when they mention it at all nowadays) speak of as calm. Its
alleged "calmness" gave us non-combatants our chance to pay it a visit;
but many wires had been pulled to get us there, and we had dwindled to a
trio, consisting of Father Beckett, Brian, and me. Mother Beckett is not
made for trenches, even the calmest, and there was no permission for
the occupants of the Red Cross taxi, who are not officially of our
party. They have their own police pass for the war-zone, but all special
plums are for the Becketts, shared by the O'Malleys; and this visit to
the trenches was an extra-special superplum.
All along the way, coming and going, tearing to meet us, or leaving us
behind, splashed with gray mud after a night of rain, motor-lorries
sped. They carried munitions or food to the front, or brought back tired
soldiers bound for a place of rest, and their roofs were marvellously
"camouflaged" in a blend of blue and green paint splotched with red. For
aeroplanes they must have looked, in their processions, like drifting
mist over meadowland. Shooting in and out among them, like slim gray
swordfish in a school of porpoise, were military cars crowded with smart
officers who saluted the lieutenant escorting us, and stared in surprise
at sight of a woman. A sprinkling of these officers were Americans, and
they would have astonished us more than we astonished them had we not
known that we should see Americans. They were to be, indeed, the
"feature" of the great show; and though Mr. Beckett was calm in manner
to match the Front, I knew from his face that he was deeply moved by the
thought of seeing "boys from home" fighting for France as his dead son
had fought.
At each small village we saw soldiers who had been sent to the "back of
the Front" for a few days' change from the trenches. They lounged on
long wooden benches before humble houses where they had _logement_; they
sat at tables borrowed from kitchens, earnestly engaged at dominoes or
_manille_, or they played _boules_ in narrow grass alleys beside the
muddy road. For them we had packed all vacant space in the auto with a
cargo of cigarettes; and white teeth flashed and blue arms waved in
gratitude as we went by. I think Father Beckett was happier than he had
been since we left Paris.
At last we came to a part of the road that was "camouflaged" with a
screen of branches fixed into wire. There was no great need of it in
these days, our lieutenant explained, but Heaven knew when it might be
urgently wanted again: perhaps to-morrow! And this was where we said
"_au revoir_" to our car. She was wheeled out of the way on to a strip
of damp grass, under a convenient group of trees where no prowling enemy
plane might "spot" her; and we set out to walk for a short distance to
what had once been a farmhouse. Now, what was left of it had another
use. A board walk (well above the mud), which led to the new, unpainted
door, was guarded by sentinels, and explanations were given and papers
shown before a rather elderly French captain appeared to greet us.
Arrangements had been made for our reception, but we had to be
identified; and when all was done we were given a good welcome. Also we
were given helmets, and I was vain enough to fancy I had never worn a
more becoming hat.
Besides our own escort--the lieutenant who had brought us from Nancy--we
had a captain and a lieutenant to guide us into the "calmness" of the
trenches (the captain and a lieutenant for Mr. Beckett and Brian, the
other lieutenant for me) and one would have thought that they had never
before seen a woman in or out of a helmet! Down in a deep cellar-like
hole, which they called "_l'anti-chambre_," all three officers coached
Father Beckett and me in trench manners. As for Brian, it was clear to
them that he was no stranger to trench life, and their treatment of him
was perfect. They made no fuss, as tactless folk do over blind men; but,
while feigning to regard him as one of themselves, they slily watched
and protected his movements as a proud mother might the first steps of a
child.
On we went from the _antichambre_ into a long mouldy passage dug deep
into the earth. It was the link between trenches; and now and then a
sentinel popped out from behind a queer barrier built up as a protection
against "_les éclats d'obus_." "This is the way the wounded come back,"
said one of the lieutenants, "when there _are_ any wounded. Just now (or
you would not be here, Mademoiselle) there is"--he finished in
English--"nothing doing."
I laughed. "Who taught you that?"
"You will see," he replied, making a nice little mystery. "You will see
who taught it to me--and _then_ some!"
That was a beautiful ending for the sentence, and his American accent
was perfect, even if the meaning of the poor man's quotation was a
little uncertain!
We turned several times, and I had begun to think of the Minotaur's
labyrinth, when the passage knotted itself into a low-roofed room, open
at both ends, save for bomb screens, with a trench leading dismally off
from an opposite doorway. "When is a door not a door?" was a conundrum
of my childhood, and I think the answer was: "When it's ajar." But
nowadays there is a better _réplique_: A door is not a door when it's a
dug-out. It is then a hole, kept from falling in upon itself by a log
of wood or anything handy. This time, the "anything handy" seemed to be
part of an old wheelbarrow, and on top were some sandbags. In the room,
which was four times as long as it was broad, and twelve times longer
than high, a few vague soldier-forms crouched over a meal on the floor,
their tablecloth being a Paris newspaper. They scrambled to their feet,
but could not stand upright, and to see their stooping salute to
stooping officers in the smoky twilight, was like a vision in a dark,
convex mirror.
As we wound our way past the screen at the far end of the cellar
dining-room, my lieutenant explained the method in placing each
_pare-éclat_, as he called the screen. "You see, Mademoiselle, if a bomb
happened to break through and kill us, the screen would save the men
beyond," he said; then, remembering with a start that he was talking to
a woman, he hurried to add: "Oh, but we shall not be killed. Have no
fear. There's nothing of that sort on our programme to-day--at least,
not where we shall take _you_."
"Do I look as if I were afraid?" I asked.
"No, you look very brave, Mademoiselle," he flattered me. "I'm sure it
is more than the helmet which gives you that look. I believe, if you
were allowed you would go on past the safety zone."
"Where does the safety zone end?" I curiously questioned.
"It is different on different days. If you had come yesterday, you could
have had a good long promenade. Indeed that was what we hoped, when we
arranged to entertain your party. But unfortunately the gentlemen in
the opposing trenches discovered that _Les Sammies_ had arrived on our
_secteur_. They wanted to give them a reception, and so--your walk has
to be shortened, Mademoiselle."
Suddenly I felt sick. I had the sensation Soeur Julie described
herself as feeling when she met the giant German officers. But it was
not fear. "Do you mean--while we're here, safe--like tourists on a
pleasure jaunt," I stammered, "that American soldiers are being
_killed_--in the trenches close by? It's horrible! I can't----"
"_Il ne faut pas se faire de la bile_, as our _poilus_ say, when they
mean 'Don't worry,' Mademoiselle," the lieutenant soothed me. "If there
were any killing along this _secteur_ you would hear the guns boom,
_n'est-ce-pas_? You had not stopped to think of that. There was a little
affair at dawn, I don't conceal it from you. A surprise--a _coup de
main_ against the Americans the Boches intended. They thought, as all
has been quiet on our Front for so long, we should expect nothing. But
the surprise didn't work. They got as good as they sent, and no one on
our side was killed. That I swear to you, Mademoiselle! There were a few
wounded, yes, but no fatalities. The trouble is that now things have
begun to move, they may not sit still for long, and we cannot take risks
with our visitors. The mountain must come to Mahomet. That is, _les
Sammies_ must call upon you, instead of you upon them. The reception
room is _chez nous Français_. It is ready, and you will see it in a
moment."
Almost as he spoke we came to a dug-out of far more imposing
architecture than the hole between trenches which we had seen. We had to
stoop to go in, but once in we could stand upright, even Brian, who
towered several inches above the other men. The place was lighted with
many guttering candles, and tears sprang to my eyes at the pathos of the
decorations. Needless to explain that the French and American flags
which draped the dark walls were there in our honour! Also there were a
Colonel, a table, benches, chairs, some glasses, and one precious bottle
of champagne, enough for a large company to sip, if not to drink, each
other's health. Hardly had we been introduced to the decorations,
including the Colonel, when the Americans began to arrive, three young
officers and two who had hardened into warlike middle age. It was
heart-warming to see them meet Mr. Beckett, and their chivalric niceness
to Brian and me was somehow different from any other niceness I
remember--except Jim's.
Not that one of the men looked like Jim, or had a voice like his: yet,
when they spoke, and smiled, and shook hands, I seemed to see Jim
standing behind them, smiling as he had smiled at me on our one day
together. I seemed to hear his voice in an undertone, as if it mingled
with theirs, and I wondered if Jim's father had the same almost
supernatural impression that his son had come into the dug-out room with
that little band of his countrymen.
It is strange how a woman can be homesick for a man she has known only
one day; but she can--she _can_--for a Jim Beckett! He was so vital, so
central in life, known even for a day, that after his going the world is
a background from which his figure has been cut out, leaving a blank
place. These jolly, brave American soldier-men made me want so
desperately to see Jim that I wished a bomb would drop in--just a
_small_ bomb, touching only me, and whisking me away to the place where
he is. In body he could not forgive me, of course, for what I've done;
but in spirit he might forgive my spirit if it travelled a long way to
see his!
I am almost sure that the Americans did bring Jim back to Father
Beckett, as to me, for though he was cheerful, and even made jokes to
show that he mustn't be treated as a mourner, there was one piteous sign
of emotion which no self-control could hide. I saw his throat work--the
throat of an old man--his "Adam's apple" going convulsively up and down
like a tossed ball in a fountain jet. Then, lest I should sob while his
eyes were dry, I looked away.
We all had champagne out of the marvellous bottle which had been hoarded
during long months in case of "a great occasion," and we economized sips
but not healths. We drank to each one of the Allies in turn, and to a
victorious peace. Then the officers--French and American--began telling
us trench tales--no grim stories, only those at which we could laugh.
One was what an American captain called a "peach"; but it was a
Frenchman who told it: the American contingent have had no such
adventures yet.
The thing happened some time ago, before the "liveliness" died down
along this _secteur_. One spring day, in a rainy fog like a gray
curtain, a strange pair of legs appeared, prowling alongside a French
trench. They were not French legs; but instantly two pairs of French
arms darted out under the stage-drop of fog to jerk them in. Down came a
_feldwebel_ on top of them, squealing desolately "Kamerad!" He squealed
many more guttural utterances, but not one of the soldiers in blue
helmets, who soon swarmed round him, could understand a word he said.
"Why the crowd?" wondered the Captain of the company, appearing from a
near-by dug-out. The queer quarry was dragged to the officer's feet, and
fortunately the Captain, an Alsatian, had enough German for a catechism.
"What were you doing close to our lines?" he demanded.
"Oh, Herr Captain, I did not know they were your lines. I thought they
were ours. In our trench we are hungry, very hungry. I thought in the
mist I could safely go a little way and seek for some potatoes. Where we
are they say there was once a fine potato field. Not long ago, one of
our men came back with half a dozen beauties. Ah, they were good! I was
empty enough to risk anything, Herr Captain. But I had no luck. And,
worse still, the fog led me astray. Spare my life, sir!"
"We will spare you what is worth more than a little thing like your
life," said the Captain. "We'll spare you some of our good food, to show
you that we French do not have to gnaw our finger-nails, like you
miserable Boches. Men, take this animal away and feed it!"
The men obeyed, enjoying the joke. The dazed Kamerad was stuffed with
sardines, meat, bread, and butter (of which he had forgotten the
existence), delicious cheese, and chocolates. At last the magic meal was
topped off with smoking hot black coffee, a thimbleful of brandy, and--a
_cigar_! Tobacco and cognac may have been cheap, but they made the
_feldwebel_ feel as if he had died and gone to heaven.
When he had eaten till his belt was tight for the first time in many
moons, back he was hustled to the Captain.
"Well--you have had something better than potatoes? _Bon!_ Now, out of
this, quicker than you came! Your mother may admire your face, but we
others, we have seen enough of it."
"But, Herr Captain," pleaded the poor wretch, loth to be banished from
Paradise, "I am your prisoner."
"Not at all," coolly replied the officer. "We can't be bothered with a
single prisoner. What is one flea on a blanket? Another time, if we come
across you again with enough of your comrades to make the game worth
while, why then, perhaps we may give ourselves the pain of keeping you.
You've seen that we have enough food to feed your whole trench, and
never miss it."
Away flew the German over the top, head over heels, not unassisted: and
after they had laughed awhile, his hosts and foes forgot him. But not so
could he forget them. That night, after dark, he came trotting back with
fifteen friends, all crying "Kamerad!" eager to deliver themselves up to
captivity for the flesh-pots of Egypt.
"But--we're not to go without a glimpse of the Sammies, are we?" I
asked, when stories and champagne were finished.
The "Sammies'" officers laughed. "The boys don't love that name, you
know! But it sticks like a burr. It's harder to get rid of than the
Boches. As for seeing them--(the boys, not the Boches!) _well_----" And
a consultation followed.
The trenches beyond our dug-out drawing room could not be guaranteed
"safe as the Bank of England" for non-combatants that day, and no one
wanted to be responsible for our venturing farther. Still, if we
couldn't go to the boys, a "bunch" of the boys could come to us. A
lieutenant dashed away, and presently returned with six of the tallest,
brownest, best-looking young men I ever saw. Their khaki and their
beautiful new helmets were so like British khaki and helmets that I
shouldn't have been expert enough to recognize them as American. But
somehow the merest amateur would never have mistaken those boys for
their British brothers. I can't tell where the difference lay. All I can
say is that it was there. Were their jaws squarer? No, it couldn't have
been that, for British jaws are firm enough, and have need to be, Heaven
knows! Were their chins more prominent? But millions of British chins
are prominent. My brain collapsed in the strain after comparisons,
abandoned the effort and drank in a draught of rich, ripe American slang
as a glorious pick-me-up. No wonder the French officers in _liaison_
have caught the new "code." The coming of those brown boys with their
bright and glittering teeth and witty words made up to us for miles of
trenches we hadn't seen. Gee, but they were bully! Oh, _boy_! Get hep to
that!