Nothing I can ever see in the years to come--with the exception of the
Allied flags floating over the Kaiser's palace in Berlin--will equal the
thrill I got from watching the first khaki-clad Yankees marching up that
narrow street to the tune of Yankee Doodle!
I kept wondering who the dickens I was, to be privileged to witness such
a history-making sight!
The townsfolk mobbed us. They cheered us and hugged us and called down
blessings on our heads. Someone took pity on us and showed us the way
to an inn--a rambling white shallet with a big American flag hung from
its windows. At the gate, the innkeeper and his plump little wife were
awaiting us with open arms. They asked us if we would consent to eat
"_poullet_." Consent! We would have devoured birch bark with a relish
had it been cooked the way Madame Mousequet could cook!
I have never tasted such chicken or such potatoes. And while we ate and
drank the little lady fluttered about us, hoping, in voluble French,
that everything suited "the dear officers from the United States."
They would not take a cent of pay for the feast. It was, they assured
us, "_une grande honneur_." Over and over they insisted that we must not
think of spoiling their pleasure by having money pass between us. What
can you do with people like that?
That night we went to a little cinema theater. When the lights were
turned up and the audience caught sight of us, they rose in a body and
cheered us. In one of the boxes were a group of French officers and
their wives. One of the officers hurried around to where we were
sitting.
"You must place yourself where all the people may see you," he insisted.
There was no refusing him. He was like a child, bubbling over with joy
at having us there.
"Come," he pleaded, "let me seat you so that all may see."
We followed meekly. The ladies in the box were awaiting us eagerly. They
welcomed us with outstretched hands. And as I looked at those people who
had been through two grilling years of war, I thanked God I came from a
country that had taken up arms against a beast who was trying to crush
the red poppies beneath his heel.
It was hard to get leave to go up to Paris. Sailings were uncertain and
special permission had to be obtained, but I made up my mind I'd go.
General Pershing was to be there for the Fourth of July celebration at
the tomb of Lafayette. I knew that would be a never-to-be-forgotten
sight.
I was right. It was a glorious morning and the thrill of the day was in
the air--crowds everywhere--sky blue and navy blue uniforms rubbing
shoulders with the khaki of our own boys. Women, many of them in black,
hurrying--hurrying toward the spot where the great Commander-in-Chief of
the American Expeditionary Forces could be seen.
"Pershing!" Everywhere you heard his name and an under-current of eager
whispers as to whether there would be a chance to see him or not.
The Fourth of July! Paris! And our General, the idol of the hour! I tell
you it thrilled me clear down to my heels!
We navy men were let through the crowd and we were able to view the
ceremony at close range. I have never heard such cheering in my life! It
was Paris' first opportunity to hear our General speak, and he spoke so
simply--so quietly--in the face of that great ovation that there was not
one among us who could doubt his ability to lead our men as they had
never before been led.
There were to be fireworks that night in honor of our presence--concerts
and speeches and dancing. Oh, France was showing us that she was glad
we had come, but how glad we were to be there she can never guess!
I drifted idly with the crowd. I wandered down to the big station--the
_Gare de Lyons_. What took me there I scarcely know. Fate, I suppose,
because there were a thousand and one places I might have gone instead.
The station was full of a bustling mob--uniforms--uniforms everywhere. A
train load of soldiers had just arrived on leave from the Front. That
was a sight for you, as their eager eyes lighted on some loved one's
face! I tell you, it kept your heart jumping in your throat to see them.
Some of them were so white and worn and haggard. Most of them bronzed
and wiry, a bit grimy from the long train trip, with uniforms faded and
sometimes torn. But weariness and dirt and tears could not hide the
spirit that shone in their eyes as they clasped their wife and little
ones to them.
A young artillery officer came toward me. He was a handsome man with a
bit of a swagger in spite of his limp. I saw his eyes roving the crowd
restlessly in search of someone. Suddenly he caught sight of me.
"Ah! An American! What joy! _Vive L'Amerique!_" he shouted.
I thanked him. I told him my name and he told me his. It was Louis du
Frere, and he lived at Faubourg St. Germain. He was just back from the
trenches on a precious leave of seven days. Wounded? He shrugged. But,
yes, fifteen times so far, and what of that?
I stared at him. Wounded fifteen times and yet eager to go back! Spirit
of France, you are indomitable!
He excused himself as he scanned the crowd. His sister was to meet him.
She was there somewhere. She never failed him. Ah, yes! He had found
her. . . .
I turned to see a little black-clad figure rush into his arms and cling
to him as though she could never let him go. He spoke to her gently.
"Angele," he said, "this gentleman is a great officer of the American
navy. Tell him how glad you are to welcome him to France."
At that she whirled and since then I have never been able to see a red
poppy without thinking of her. I don't remember what I said in my very
limited French, but her brother broke in to explain that she had lost
her young husband at the battle of the Marne and he ended up by
announcing to her that I was going to spend the rest of my liberty as
their guest.
I tried to protest, to insist that I had no intention of thrusting my
presence upon them for eleven days. But he took my refusal with the air
of a hurt child and when Angele joined her pleas with his, I succumbed.
I let du Frere hail a cab and we all piled in. I gathered up my few
possessions at the hotel and climbed aboard again, and we rumbled
through the streets of Paris toward St. Germain, Angele clinging to her
brother's arm and listening with a wrapt look on her face to his gay
comments on trench life.
I thought I must be dreaming it all. It was so like the scene of a
play--Paris slipping away from us, as we rattled across a long bridge,
the open country becoming greener and leafier every instant--the gay
voice of the young officer, the eager questions of our little old
driver, and the poppy-like girl, with lips parted, drinking in
breathlessly every word her brother uttered.
We stopped before a tiny house, shaded by tall trees. I saw, gathered
before it, a little knot of people, shading their eyes for a glimpse of
the returning hero.
They pounced upon him, men, women, and children--all his neighbors, who
had awaited his home coming for heaven only knows how many hours. They
shouted their welcome to him, each of them clasping him for a minute and
claiming his full attention.
Angele stood looking on, the tears rolling down her cheeks, even while
her lips smiled.
"They love him so," she said softly, as though to explain it, "he is so
brave!"
I think he was, to face that mob.
They followed him in. The table was spread with every sort of delicacy.
Each one of them had contributed something choice--some dish of which he
was especially fond. He exclaimed over it all rapturously. He left
nothing to be desired in his eager enthusiasm.
They gave him no time to rest. They poured a torrent of questions upon
him. Questions about their own brothers and husbands and
lovers--questions concerning warfare--trench life--battles in which he
had fought. And he told them all he knew until at length Angele scolded
them tenderly and bore him off. Then it was that they turned upon me as
the second best object of interest.
Never in a lifetime could I answer all that they asked of me. What did
our country hope to do? How many men could she send across at once? How
long did she think the war would last?
I tell you I was glad to see Angele and Louis reappear and to follow
them to the feast. I was placed at Angele's right hand--the guest of
honor--I sat down with a sigh of relief as I saw the tempting spread.
Sat down! We were never down more than an instant before someone would
leap up and propose a standing toast to Pershing and to Joffre, to
President Wilson and to President Poincairé, to myself, to my navy, to
my country!
And the Marseillaise! How they did sing that! three and four times,
shouting the chorus until the rafters shook!
Then Louis pounded on the table for order.
"The American officer will now sing his National Anthem," he announced.
There was instant silence, then encouraging applause, then silence.
"But yes, you will sing it," urged Angele, seeing my panic.
Now, in the first place, I cannot carry a tune and in the second place I
knew just one verse of the "Star Spangled Banner"--and I was not over
sure of that one!
I have never felt a shame equal to mine as I struggled desperately
through the first verse of my country's song! They applauded madly. I
might have been Caruso to judge from the racket they made.
But Louis was not satisfied.
"Permit me also to sing it for you," he said, and sing it he did--all
three verses of it,--with a ring to his voice that thrilled me and held
me spellbound. I asked him where he had learned it. It seems, he
modestly explained, an American ambulance driver had employed his time
in the trenches teaching it to him.
After supper we danced to the music of a string band. But Louis sat in a
corner, surrounded by a group of older men and I could see they were in
earnest, thrashing out the latest developments at the Front. That gave
me a chance with Angele--or rather--half a chance, because her every
thought was with her brother.
"He is all the world to me," she said.
She watched over him in spite of himself and when she concluded he must
be tired, she whispered it to his friends and they began, one by one, to
leave, in spite of his protests. He went with them to the door,
shouting, waving, kissing his hand. When he came back to us he did look
a bit done up.
"Ah, Angele, it is good to be at home," he said, and then, as though
fearing that might seem a confession of weakness, he hastened to add,
"for a little time!"
We spent six wonderfully lazy days in the heart of summer. It was there
that I came to know the poppies which were so like Angele, so radiant,
so graceful--so lovely. I told her once that she put me in mind of them.
"I am glad," she replied, "because I, too, love them."
My leave was not up for eleven days all told, and Louis had persuaded me
to stay on at the little cottage after his return to duty. I did not
need much persuading. It seemed as though I could never tear myself away
from that tiny house shaded by tall trees.
The night before he left I don't think any of us slept a wink. The
neighbors arrived, laden with all sorts of dainties--cakes and bread
they had made for him to take back. They brought packages for their own
boys, too, that he cheerfully promised to distribute. They gave him
letters and a thousand messages, which he repeated painstakingly after
them. He was so gentle with them, so eager to do as they asked.
He was particularly pleased over a little bunch of wild flowers a tiny
girl had gathered for him, the flowers were drooping and faded from
being clasped in her hot little hand, but he told her again and again
how much he loved them, until her little cheeks glowed pink with joy and
her eyes shone like stars.
After they had gone, I stole away and left Angele alone with him. They
sat in the open doorway, her cheek against his arm, her hand in his. She
was not sad, there was a happy, busy note in her voice as she chatted to
him.
Before he climbed the stairs to bed, he sought me. I was smoking and
thinking, on a little bench beneath the trees. Louis sat beside me and
laid his hand on my knee.
"Well, my friend, I leave before you. For a little while we part, is it
not so?--then, God willing, we meet again."
I tried to tell him what my visit had meant to me. What a place France
and her people would for ever more occupy in my heart. All those things
I struggled to say, but when it comes to expressing that which lies
close to our heart, I find we are a halting, tongue-tied nation!
Then I spoke of Angele. I wanted him to know before he left how much I
cared for her. I was afraid he might be displeased, but, instead, he
pumped my hand with joy.
"This is American fashion," he laughed, then he leaned over and kissed
my cheek. "Since you love a French girl you will have to get used to her
brother's greeting," he said.
I told him I had not spoken to Angele. I had not dared to. I could not
hope she would care for me.
"But you must speak to-night, before I go," he shouted. "Let me prepare
her first. Oh, but this is of a great happiness to me!"
And before I could stop him, he hurried away.
After a long silence, while my heart thumped against my ribs and I felt
myself growing hot and cold by turns, his voice sounded through the
darkness.
"Come here, my friend, and see what you can do to make this child change
her mind."
I ran toward him. I saw the flash of Angele's white gown, but when I
reached her side, Louis had gone. She awaited me. Somehow she looked
like the poppies at twilight, when their petals are folded. . . .
We were there together so long, that at length Louis' voice broke in
upon us and startled us. He shouted that he must leave in six
hours--that a brother returning to the Front had some claim upon his
sister's time. Angele flew to his side, begging him to forgive her
selfishness, but he pinched her cheek and laughed at her, brimming over
with happiness at the romance for which he claimed he was responsible.
"But you must not take her away until after the war," he pleaded. "I
want her here to greet me when I come home. I am a selfish brute, I
know, but I would have nothing to return to if my little sister were
gone."
I promised him. I would have promised anything that night I was so
happy. It did not seem, as I stood in that quiet, leafy garden, with
Angele's hand in mine, that there could be pain and anguish in the
world--that cannons could be roaring and star shells bursting less than
a hundred miles away!
Louis left at daybreak. We drove to Paris with him and to the station.
It was a gay morning with a red sun rolling up from the east.
Angele was all smiles and animation, full of eager plans for his next
leave. She submitted to his teasing with a laugh, but, for all that, her
eyes looked as though they held a world of unshed tears, and I saw her,
once or twice, press her lips together as though to choke back the sobs.
The station was full of men returning to the Front. They called eagerly
to one another--they compared packages, and boasted of the good times
they had had. Louis caught my hand and wrung it. Then he laid Angele's
in it.
"She is all I have," he said; "it is fitting I leave her in the care of
our beloved ally."
He kissed her and teased her about capturing an American in seven days,
saluted us smartly and stalked through the great gate, turning to wave
and smile and kiss his hand.
I never felt such a sense of loss in my life. It seemed as though the
sun had gone out of the day.
"I cannot bear it," Angele whispered, so I took her away.
We spent the few remaining days of my leave planning our life after the
war. She will not marry me until then. She and Louis are coming to the
States to live and we three are to be as happy as the days are long. We
will be, too. I know it.
I have been across seven times since and I have seen her four of those
times in the past year. If there is any man on earth who wants this war
to end it is I--and the reason is a certain flower-like girl in France.
Good Lord! you don't know what waiting for her means!
We've got to finish those Germans quickly and thoroughly so that Louis
and Angele and I can set sail for America. If that is not a reason for
ending this war, find me a better one!
THE END
WHERE THE SOULS OF MEN ARE CALLING
The first big love story to come out of the war zone--founded on fact
more strange, more powerful than fiction.
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* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes:
The case of first words of some chapters was changed to match the layout
of the rest of the book.
Page 43, "the" changed to "The" (The old man seemed)
Page 99, double quotation mark removed before single quotation mark.
(put it, 'Jay fame.'") Original read: (put it, "'Jay fame.'")
End of Project Gutenberg's Over the Seas for Uncle Sam, by Elaine Sterne