They had carried on quite a correspondence, as godmother and_The Fledgling

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THE FLEDGLING

CHARLES BERNARD NORDHOFF

[Illustration: Logo]

Boston and New York

Houghton Mifflin Company

The Riverside Press Cambridge

1919

CONTENTS

I. A WATCHER OF THE SKIES 1

II. THE FLEDGLING 70

III. FULL-FLEDGED 94

THE FLEDGLING

A WATCHER OF THE SKIES

_January 22, 1917_

We were put on active duty at the front about the first of the year; in

fact, I spent New Year's night in a dugout within pistol-shot of the

Germans. It was quite a celebration, as the French Government had

provided champagne, cakes, and oranges for all, and every one was

feeling in a cheery mood. When dinner was over, each of us chipped in

his day's ration of army wine (about a pint), and with a little brandy,

some oranges, sugar, and a packet of spices I had been commissioned to

get, we brewed a magnificent bowl of hot punch, or mulled wine. First

"The Day of Victory" was toasted, then, "France"; then, with typical

French consideration, "The United States." After that, each man's

family at home received a health; so you may be interested to know that

your health and happiness for 1917 were drunk in a first-class abri by a

crowd of first-class fellows, as all French soldiers are.

The next day was a typical one, so I will sketch it for you, to give an

idea of how we live and what we do. When the party broke up it was late,

so we turned in at once, in a deep strong dugout, which is safe against

anything short of a direct hit by a very heavy shell. Once or twice, as

I dropped off to sleep, I thought I heard furtive scamperings and

gnawings, but all was quiet until just before daybreak, when we were

awakened by a terrifying scream from a small and inoffensive soldier who

does clerical work in the office of the médecin chef. The poor fellow

has a horror of rats, and usually sleeps with head and toes tightly

bundled up. I flashed on my electric torch at the first scream and

caught a glimpse of an enormous rat--fully the size of a small fox

terrier, I assure you!--streaking it for his hole. The next minute I

made out the unfortunate little soldier holding with both hands one ear,

from which the nocturnal visitor had bitten a large mouthful, while he

did a frantic dance around the floor. First came a titter, then a choked

laugh, and finally the whole dugout howled with uncontrollable mirth,

until the victim wound on his puttees and stalked out, much offended, to

get some iodine for his ear.

As we had laughed ourselves wide awake, I passed around some cigarettes,

while another fellow went down for a pot of coffee. Dressing consists of

putting on one's shoes, puttees, and tunic--when I feel particularly

sybaritic I take off my necktie at night.

For once the sun came up in a clear blue sky and shone down frostily on

a clean white world--a metre of snow on the ground, and pines like

Christmas trees. It was wonderfully still: far away on a hillside some

one was chopping wood, and beyond the German lines I could hear a cock

crow. After stopping to ask the telephonist if there were any calls, I

took towel and soap and tooth-brush and walked to the watering trough,

where a stream of icy water runs constantly. As I strolled back, a

thumping explosion came from the trenches--some enthusiast had tossed a

grenade across as a New Year's greeting to the Boche. Retaliatory thumps

followed, and suddenly a machine-gun burst out with its abrupt stutter.

Louder and louder grew the racket as gusts of firing swept up and down

the lines, until a battery of 75's took a hand from the hills half a

mile behind us. _Crack-whang-crack_, they went, like the snapping of

some enormous whip, and I could hear their shells whine viciously

overhead.

An orderly appeared shortly, to inform me that I must make ready to

take out a few wounded. My load consisted of one poor fellow on a

stretcher, still and invisible under his swathing of blankets, and two

very lively chaps,--each with a leg smashed, but able to sit up and talk

at a great rate. We offered them stretchers, but they were refused with

gay contempt. They hopped forward to their seats, smiling and nodding

good-bye to the stretcher-bearers. Despite my efforts one of them bumped

his wounded leg and a little involuntary gasp escaped him. "Ça pique,

mon vieux," he explained apologetically; "mais ça ne fait rien--allez!"

At the hospital, several miles back, there was the usual wait for

papers, and as I handed cigarettes to my two plucky passengers, I

explained that hospital book-keeping was tiresome but necessary.

Suddenly the blood-stained blankets on the stretcher moved and a pale,

but calm and quizzical face looked up into mine: "Oh, là là! C'est une

guerre de papier; donnez-moi une cigarette!" You can't down men of this

caliber.

Just before bedtime another call came from a dressing-station at the

extreme front. It was a thick night, snowing heavily, and black as ink,

and I had to drive three kilometres, without light of any kind, over a

narrow winding road crowded with traffic of every description. How one

does it I can scarcely say. War seems to consist in doing the impossible

by a series of apparent miracles. Ears and eyes must be connected in

some way. Driving in pitchy blackness, straining every sense and calling

every nerve to aid one's eyes, it seems that vision is impaired if ears

are covered.

At the posts, just behind the lines, where one waits for wounded to come

in from the trenches, I spend idle hours, chatting or playing dominoes.

Our little circle comprises a remarkable variety of types: one hears

French of every patois, from the half-Spanish drawl of the Mediterranean

to the clipped negatives and throaty _r_ of Paris.

As inventors of racy slang we Americans are miles behind the French.

Your pipe is "Mélanie" (also your sweetheart, for some unknown reason).

One's mess is "la popote," a shrapnel helmet is a "casserole," a

machine-gun is a "moulin à café." Bed is ironically called "plumard";

and when a bursting shell sends out its spray of buzzing steel, the cry

is "Attention aux mouches!" [Look out for the flies!] Government tobacco

is known, aptly, as "foin" [hay]. If one wants a cigarette, and has a

paper but no tobacco, one extends the paper toward a better-provided

friend saying, "Kindly sign this." And so on.

_February 18_

I had an interesting day yesterday. The commandant asked for a car--he

is the head medical officer--to visit some posts, and I was lucky

enough to land the job. He is a charming, cultivated man, and made it

very pleasant for his chauffeur. We visited a number of posts,

inspecting new dugout emergency hospitals, and vaccinating the

stretcher-bearers against typhoid--a most amusing process, as these

middle-aged fellows have the same horror of a doctor that a child has of

a dentist. Reluctant was scarcely the word.

Finally we left the car (at the invitation of the artillery officer) and

walked a couple of miles through the woods to see a new observation

post. The last few hundred yards we made at a sneaking walk, talking

only in whispers, till we came to a ladder that led up into the thick

green of a pine tree. One after another the officers went up, and at

length the gunner beckoned me to climb. Hidden away like a bird's nest

among the fragrant pine-needles, I found a tiny platform, where the

officer handed me his binoculars and pointed to a four-inch hole in the

leafy screen. There right below us were two inconspicuous lines of

trenches, zigzagging across a quiet field, bounded by leafless pollard

willows. It was incredible to think that hundreds of men stood in those

ditches, ever on the alert. At a first glance the countryside looked

strangely peaceful and unhampered--farm-houses here and there, neatly

hedged fields, and, farther back, a village with a white church. Look

closer, though, and you see that the houses are mere shells, with

crumbling walls and shattered windows; the fields are scarred and pitted

with shell-holes, the village is ruined and lifeless, and the belfry of

the church has collapsed. Above all, there is not an animal, not a sign

of life in the fields or on the roads. Not a sound, except the distant

hornet buzzing of an aeroplane.

On clear days there is a good deal of aeroplane activity in our

section, and one never tires of watching the planes. The German machines

do not bomb us in this district, for some reason unknown to me, but they

try to reconnoiter and observe for artillery fire. It is perfectly

obvious, however, that the French have the mastery of the air, by virtue

of their skillful and courageous pilots and superb fighting machines,

and their superior skill in anti-aircraft fire. To watch a plane at an

altitude of, say, nine thousand feet under shrapnel fire, one would

think the pilot was playing with death; but in reality his occupation is

not so tremendously risky.

Consider these factors: he is a mile and a half to two miles from the

battery shooting at him, he presents a tiny mark, and his speed is from

eighty to one hundred and twenty-five miles per hour. Above all, he can

twist and turn or change his altitude at will. The gunner must

calculate his altitude and rate of speed, and after the lanyard is

pulled, considerable time elapses before the shell reaches its mark.

Meanwhile, the aviator has probably come down or risen or changed his

course. It is like trying to shoot a twisting snipe with very

slow-burning powder--the odds are all in favor of the snipe.

All the same, the spectacle never quite loses its thrill. High and

remote against the sky you see the big reconnaissance machine going

steadily on its way, its motor sending a faint drone to your ears.

Keeping it company, darting around it like a pilot-fish around a shark,

is the tiny, formidable appareil de chasse, a mere dot against the blue.

_Crack! Whang! Boom!_ goes a battery near by, and three white puffs

spring out suddenly around the distant machines, above, behind, below.

Another battery speaks out, another and another, till the sky is filled

with downy balls of smoke. Suddenly the firing ceases, and the big

German aero slants down swiftly toward its base. A sharper droning hits

your ears. There, directly above us, a French fighting machine is

rushing at two hundred kilometres an hour to give battle to the little

Fokker. Close together, wheeling and looping the loop to the rattle of

their mitrailleuses, they disappear into a cloud, and we can only guess

the result.

_One day later_

I finished the paragraph above just as a wave of rifle and machine-gun

fire rolled along the lines. Running out of the abri to see what the

excitement was about, I saw two French aeros skimming low over the

German trenches--where every one with any kind of a fire-arm was blazing

away at them. Fortunately, neither one was hit, and after a couple of

retaliatory belts, they rose and flew off to the south. The Germans

began to waste shrapnel on the air, and indiscreetly revealed the

location of a battery, which the French promptly bombarded with heavy

guns. Pretty soon all hands were at it--a two-hour Fourth of July.

I was on the road all day yesterday, afternoon and evening, getting back

to the post at 10 P.M. One of the darkest nights I remember--absolutely

impossible to move without an occasional clandestine flash of my torch.

Far off to the right (twenty or thirty miles) a heavy bombardment was in

progress, the guns making a steady rumble and mutter. I could see a

continuous flicker on the horizon. The French batteries are so craftily

hidden that I pass within a few yards of them without a suspicion. The

other day I was rounding a familiar turn when suddenly, with a

tremendous roar and concussion, a "380" went off close by. The little

ambulance shied across the road and I nearly fell off the seat. Talk

about "death pops"--these big guns give forth a sound that must be heard

to be appreciated.

Another break here, as since writing the above we have had a bit of

excitement, in the shape of a raid, or coup de main. In sectors like

ours, during the periods of tranquillity between more important attacks,

an occasional coup de main is necessary in order to get a few prisoners

for information about the enemy. We are warned beforehand to be ready

for it, but do not know exactly when or where. I will tell you the story

of the last one, as related by a slightly wounded but very happy poilu I

brought in beside me.

"After coffee in the morning," he said, "our battalion commander called

for one platoon of volunteers to make the attack--each volunteer to have

eight days' special leave afterwards. It was hard to choose, as every

one wanted to go--for the 'permission,' and to have a little fun with

the Boches. At noon we were ordered to the first line. Our rifles and

equipment were left behind, each man carrying only a little food, a

canteen of wine, a long knife, and a sack of grenades. Our orders were

to advance the moment the bombardment ceased, take as many prisoners as

possible, and return before the enemy had recovered from his surprise.

At the point of attack the German trench is only twenty yards from

ours--several nights before, they had rolled out a line of portable

wire-entanglements. At 4.30 in the afternoon our 75's began to plough up

the Boche trench and rip their wire to shreds. It was wonderful--along

the line in front of us hundreds of our shells, bursting only twenty

metres off, sent earth and wire and timbers high into the air--while

not one of us, watching so close by, was hurt.

"At 5.15 the guns ceased firing and the next instant we were over the

parapet, armed with knives, grenades, and a few automatic pistols. After

the racking noise of the bombardment, a strange quiet, a breathless

tranquillity, seemed to oppress us as we ran through the torn wire and

jumped into the smoking ruins of the enemy trench. In front of me there

was no one,--only a couple of bodies,--but to the right and left I could

hear grenades going, so it was evident that a few Germans had not

retreated to the dugouts. Straight ahead I saw a boyau leading to their

second lines, and as I ran into this with my squad, we came on a German

at the turn. His hands were up and he was yelling, 'Kamerad, Kamerad!'

as fast as he knew how. Next minute, down went his hand and he tossed a

grenade into our midst. By luck it struck mud, and the time-fuse gave

us a moment's start. The corporal was killed and my pal, Frétard, who

lies on the stretcher behind, got an éclat through the leg. We did not

make a prisoner of the Boche.

"The abris of the second line were full of Germans, but all but one were

barricaded. A few grenades persuaded the survivors to come out of this,

with no fight left in them; but how to get into the others? In vain we

invited them to come out for a little visit--till some one shouted, 'The

stove-pipes!' Our barrage fire was now making such a fuss that the

Boches farther back could not use their machine-guns, so we jumped on

top of the dugouts and popped a half-dozen citrons into each chimney.

That made them squeal, mon vieux--oh, là là! But it was time to go

back--our sergeant was shouting to us; so, herding our prisoners ahead,

we made a sprint back to our friends."

One of the prisoners was wounded, and he was hauled to the hospital by

the chap with whom I share my quarters. I went to have a look at the

German--always an object of curiosity out here. Had to shoulder my way

through a crowd to get there. He lay on a stretcher, poor devil,

hollow-eyed, thin, with a ragged beard--an object of pity, suffering and

afraid for his life. His gray overcoat lay beside him and near it stood

his clumsy hobnailed boots. German or no German, he was a human being in

a bad situation--a peasant obviously, and deadly afraid.

Suddenly, a half-baked civilian--always the most belligerent

class--reached up and plucked contemptuously at his leg, with an

unpleasant epithet. Then a fine thing happened. A French soldier, lying

near by on a stretcher, severely wounded, raised up his head and looked

sternly at the crowd. "Enough," he said, "he is a Boche, I grant you;

but first of all remember that he is a soldier, wounded and in your

power!"

We were at lunch yesterday when a friend rushed in to say that an

aeroplane fight was starting, almost directly overhead. A big French

reconnaissance plane was diving for safety, with a Fokker close behind

and German shrapnel bursting all around, when a tiny French fighting

machine appeared far above, plunging down like a falcon on its quarry.

The Fokker turned too late: the Nieuport, rushing downward at one

hundred and fifty miles an hour, looped the loop around the German. Two

bursts of machine-gun fire came down faintly to our ears, and the next

moment it was evident that the German was hit. Slowly at first, the

Fokker began to fall--this way and that, like a leaf falling in still

air, growing larger each moment before our eyes, until it disappeared

behind a hill. High over the lines, scorning burst after burst of

German shrapnel, the tiny Nieuport sailed proudly back and forth, as if

daring any Boche pilot to rise and try his luck. In the thrill of the

superb spectacle, one forgot that the poor chap (a good sportsman, if he

was a German!) had lost his life.

_April, 1917_

I have met some interesting types lately. One is Jean B----, a sergeant

of infantry. Jean has been about the world a good bit, and when the war

broke out was just finishing a contract in Spain. He promptly came to

France and volunteered, and had only fifteen days of training before

being sent to the front for a big attack. Knowing nothing of military

matters and having distinguished himself in the first day's fighting, he

was made a corporal at once; and next day, when the attack began again,

he and his squad were the first to jump into a section of German

trench. There, abandoned in the hasty retreat, was a brand-new German

machine-gun and forty sacks of ammunition. Jean is a canny boy, and

before the officers had got to where he was, he had his men hide gun and

cartridges in a clump of bushes.

The French made a gain of about two miles at this point, and owing to

the nature of the ground,--artillery emplacements, and so forth,--the

new lines were nearly a mile apart. Under these conditions, both sides

were constantly making daylight patrols in the broken country between

the trenches; and as Jean's captain was a good judge of men, he let him

take his squad out daily, to do pretty much as he pleased. Pledging his

men to absolute secrecy, Jean had them hide machine-gun and ammunition a

little way in front of the new French lines, and then gave them a brief

drill, in mounting and dismounting the gun, tripod, and so forth. (He

had worked in an ordnance factory, by the way.) Each man carried either

a part of the gun or a few belts of cartridges.

One morning, just before dawn, they crawled up close to the Germans and

hid themselves in a brushy watercourse--mitrailleuse set up and ready

for action. Presently there were sounds of activity in front, and as day

broke, they made out thirty or forty Germans, who, so far away and out

of sight of the French, were out in the open, working on a new trench.

Jean's men began to get excited and wanted action, but he calmed them,

whispering to be patient. He himself is the most excitable man in the

world--except in emergencies; a jovial type, with black hair and a pair

of merry gray eyes set in a red, weather-beaten face.

Hour after hour they bided their time, until the Germans, only

seventy-five yards away, assembled in a group for a rest. Lying on his

belly behind the gun, Jean sighted and pulled the lever, spraying lead

into the unfortunate Boches until the last belt of two hundred

cartridges had raced through. Then it was all hands dismount the gun and

retreat at top speed. Sneaking "home" by devious ways, they smiled to

see shells begin to smash into the position they had so lately left.

At supper that evening (the meal known universally as "la soupe"), the

colonel came strolling down the trench with Jean's subaltern. The

lieutenant nodded and pointed, then called Jean over.

"Ah," said the colonel, smiling, "so this is the type who was on patrol

this morning--hum. I was in an advanced observation post on the hill

above you and saw the whole affair with my glasses. And how many of

those poor Germans did you kill?"

"I did not wait to count, my colonel."

"I will tell you, then; six escaped, out of thirty-eight--most

remarkable rifle-fire I remember seeing. It sounded almost like a

mitrailleuse at work. How many in your patrol? Five? Remarkable!

Remarkable! Eh bien, good day, _sergeant_."

"He was a type not too severe," remarked the ex-corporal, in telling the

tale; "in short, un bon garçon."

This is the highest compliment a poilu can pay his officer; in fact, I

once heard an ancient Territorial say it irreverently of Marshal Joffre,

whom he had known in younger days, somewhere in the Orient.

Jean is at home in several languages, speaking perfectly French, German,

Italian, and Spanish. I usually chat with him in the last, as in it I

get the fine points of his narrative better than in French. His German

was the means of getting him into an adventure such as very few men in

the war have experienced. I cannot, of course, vouch for the truth of

what follows, but I have no reason to doubt his word, and know him to be

capable of any foolhardy rashness. Such a thing would be impossible at

the present time.

One dark night, shortly after midnight Jean--on a solitary patrol--was

lying just outside the wire, about ten metres from the German trench,

listening to locate the sentries. There was a faint starlight. Suddenly

a whisper came from beyond the wire, a low voice speaking in broken

French.

"Why do you lie so quiet, my friend? I saw you crawl up and have watched

you ever since. I don't want to shoot you; I am a Bavarian."

"Good-evening, then," Jean whispered back in his perfect German.

"So," said the sentry, "you speak our language. Wait a moment, till I

warn the rest of my squad, and I will show you the way through the

wire; there are no officers about at this hour."

Probably not one man in a thousand would have taken such a chance, but

he did, and ten minutes later was standing in the trench in a German

cloak and fatigue cap (in case of passing officers), chatting amiably

with a much interested group of Bavarian soldiers. They gave him beer,

showed him their dugouts, and arranged a whistle signal for future

visits, before bidding him a regretful good-night. "We are Bavarians,"

they said; "we like and admire the French, and fight only because we

must."

With characteristic good sense, Jean went at once to his captain the

following morning and told him the whole story. The officer knew and

trusted him and said without hesitation, "Go as often as you want, and

keep your ears open."

So he made many a midnight crawl through the wires, after whistling the

soft signal. He carried with him each time a few litres of wine (a great

luxury to the German soldiers), and in return they took him on long

excursions through their trenches. Once he was in the German third line,

more than a mile back. The sector was a very quiet one, though the

trenches were close together, and one morning a crude arrow dropped into

the French trench, bearing a note to Jean.

"Get into your dugouts at five this afternoon," it read; "there will be

a bombardment, but no attack, we hope."

Another time, after a French bombardment, a similar note dropped in:

"Don't send so many torpedoes--shells are all right, but your torpedoes

have ruined some of our best sleeping-places. Remember we are not

Prussians, but Bavarians."

Jean is just now back from a permission. He went away a reckless, jolly

sort of an adventurer, and has come back sober, serious, and

tremendously in love. He told me a little about it, as we sat together

in my dugout (I have a private one now, with a stove, a tiny window

sticking up discreetly six inches above ground, and pictures on the

walls), and the tale is so typical of war-time France that I can't

resist telling it to you.

They had carried on quite a correspondence, as godmother and godson,

before the longed-for permission came; and when A----, with her parents,

of course, met him at the train, she seemed like an old friend. She is

charming, as I know from her photograph, and sturdy brown Jean, togged

out in his special permission uniform, with his neat shoes, bright

leather puttees and belt, képi de fantaisie, and gold sergeant's

wound- and service-stripes, looks every inch a soldier of France.

At the end of the second day, he was walking with A---- and could

contain himself no longer.

"Mademoiselle," he said, "I cannot, as a man of honor, stay here

longer. I love you,--there, I have said it,--but I am penniless, and

after the war shall have only what I can earn. Your father, on the other

hand, is the most important merchant in this district--so you see it

would (even if you were willing) be quite impossible for me to ask for

your hand. I can never thank you enough for your kindness to a poor

soldier; it has given me a glimpse of Paradise."

That evening, as he sat in his room, trying to make up an excuse to give

the old people for leaving, the girl's mother came in, saying that she

understood he was going, and was much hurt to think that her house had

not pleased him. Then the old gentleman rushed in, radiant with smiling

good humor.

"But hush, maman," he cried, "I know all. Also I know a man when I see

one. You love our little A----, eh, sergeant? Well, what of it? And you

are poor--well, what of that? When we old ones are gone, she will have

everything--she is all we have, since Louis was killed at the Marne. You

are a type that I love, my boy--out there at the front, helping to push

the Boche out of France; do you suppose I would not rather have you for

a son-in-law than some sacré espèce of a rich embusqué, riding by in his

limousine?"

Rather superb, I think.

So, as an engaged man, he is making a poor attempt to be cautious. Also,

he has a frightful case of cafard, that mysterious malady of the

trenches, which is nothing but concentrated homesickness and longing for

the sight of one's women folk, sweethearts, sisters, mothers. A couple

of days ago, he came to me with a brilliant idea.

"See, Charlot," he said, "I have a scheme. You know Lieutenant P----,

chief of the corps franc--tell him of me, that I can speak German and

can take prisoners, and tell him to ask my captain to detach me for the

next coup de main."

To understand this, you must know that a coup de main is a raid, made

after a brief artillery preparation, on the enemy trenches, not with the

idea of gaining ground, but simply to get a few prisoners for

information regarding regiments, and so forth. In the French army such

raids are made by special selected companies of each regiment, who have

no routine duty and get eight days' special leave after each raid that

results in prisoners. These men are termed "corps franc." As you can

see, Jean thought this a quick way to get back to his fiancée.

While we talked, by a freak of luck, who should knock at my door but

Lieutenant P----, chief of our local corps franc, a very good friend and

one I am proud to have. He is the perfect quintessence of a French

subaltern,--twenty-six years old, slight, wiry, and handsome; an

Anglophile in everything relating to sport, as exquisite in dress and

person as Beau Brummell, and as recklessly brave as Morgan's buccaneers.

He has risen from the ranks, wears a gold bracelet, and has every

decoration that a French soldier or officer can get, including the red

ribbon. His Croix de Guerre has seven citations, and he has been five

times wounded. He took to Jean at once, saying that he needed an

interpreter for a raid which was coming in two or three days, and

promised to see the captain about it at once.

"Better come with us," he said to me, whimsically. "I want to run down

to Paris next week, and if the sergeant here and I don't get a prisoner

or two, it will be because there are none left in the first line. Come

on--you'll see some fun!"

"But," I said, "what is there in it for me? I'm ruined if I'm caught in

any such escapade, and in any case I get no permission."

"Oh, we'll fix that. Maybe you'd get a nice little wound like my last

one; and if not, I'm an expert with grenades; I think I could toss one

so you would just get an éclat or two in the legs--good for a week in

Paris."

I thanked him without enthusiasm and declined.

The sequel to this came last night as I lay reading in my bunk. The

evening had been absolutely quiet, not a rifle-shot along the trenches,

until suddenly, about 10.30, the batteries set up their sullen thumping,

mingled with the thud of exploding aerial torpedoes.

To my ears, concentrated artillery fire--not too far off--has a

strangely mournful sound--heavy, dull, and fitful, like a dark

thunderstorm in Dante's hell. The bombardment lasted exactly forty

minutes, then absolute silence except for an occasional pistol-shot (no

one uses rifles in raids), and once more the sudden stammer of a

mitrailleuse. As I lay there, safe in my warm bunk, I thought of gallant

little P---- and jolly old lovelorn Jean, perhaps at that moment

stealing through torn German wire with a brace of prisoners ahead of

them, crouching low each time a star-shell sent up its warning trail of

sparks,--or perhaps--

To-morrow, when I go back to the village for two days' rest, I shall

look for them.

_April 10, 1917_

I am writing this in a new post of ours--a village several kilometres

from the lines, where there are still civilians. As the hospital is very

noisy at night, and one would have to sleep in a barrack, packed in

among the wounded, I have arranged with a motherly old woman (patronne

of the local café) to let me have her spare room. I found an old

cowbell and by an arrangement of strings and hooks have rigged it so

that it can be rung at night from the street below. Talk about luxury! I

have a real bed (about five feet long) with sheets, pillows, and a

featherbed that reaches from feet to waist. When a night call comes, the

bell tinkles, I leap out of bed, pull on breeches and coat and high felt

"arctics," and in three minutes am off.

As there are no men about, I have been (in odd moments) splitting wood

and moving the heavy beer and wine casks as required--work really far

too heavy for women. The old lady, in return, often invites me in for a

cup of steaming coffee with a dash of schnapps, and to-day she asked me

to a family dinner--a superb civilian meal of ham and boiled potatoes

and home-made choucroute. The latter must be tasted to be appreciated.

She is quite bitter about a branch of the Y.M.C.A.--called Foyer du

Soldat--just opened here, which, with its free movies, papers, and so

forth, has lured away much of her trade. "I pay a heavy license tax,"

she says, "and they pay nothing--nothing."

Useless to try to explain to the good old soul that the innocent must

suffer in order that virtue shall triumph--or in other words, that the

fantassin shall have amusement without beer. I comforted her with the

regrettable truth that her boys will all be back when the novelty is

worn off.

A great many of the men here are muleteers from the Spanish and Italian

borders. Where the country is hilly and trails constitute the shortest

route to the trenches, the French use a great many pack-mules to carry

up provisions, ammunition, and supplies. A Western packer would be

interested in their methods. Each mule has its master, who packs it,

washes it, feeds it, and on the march walks ahead, leading it by a rope.

The pack-saddles and rigging are wonderful--they must be when one

considers that the mules often carry three hundred pounds twenty miles a

day, and sore backs are unknown.

A mule's a mule, however, wherever you meet him--these are just the same

"ornery" brutes we have at home. Their effect on the explosive southern

French temperament is sometimes ludicrous. I stopped the other day to

ask the way of a mule-skinner who was limping dejectedly ahead of his

charge--the rest of the train was far ahead. After putting me on the

road, he leaned wearily against a tree and explained that in all the

world there was probably not another mule like his. It had kicked him

yesterday, it had bitten him severely this morning, and just now, while

he adjusted the pack, it had kicked him on the hip, so that in all

likelihood he would limp for life. While he talked, the mule sidled

over, with drooping eyelids and sagging ears, and planted one foot

firmly on the unfortunate Frenchman's toes. The whole thing seemed to

have been done by accident--I could almost see the dotted line of

innocence running from the mule's sleepy eye off into space. Without a

word, the man set his shoulder against the mule, forced its weight off

his foot, and tenderly inspected the injured part. Then, hands on hips,

he regarded the mule with a long stare of dramatic contempt.

"Wouldst thou kill me, sacré espèce of a camel?" he said at last; "well,

death would be better than this. Come, here I am!"

The day before yesterday, when I was out at one of our posts on the

front, an Austrian 88 mm. shell fell in a crowd of mules and their

drivers. Fortunately no one was hurt (by one of the freaks of shells),

but three mules were killed by the splinters. That night, with some

misgivings, I tried a steak from the hind-quarter of a five-year-old

mule. _It was bully._ When you come to think of it, a mule is just as

good food as a steer.

A week ago I was waiting at a front post for some wounded, when a mule

train came by, packed with the huge winged aerial torpedoes so much in

vogue just now. Each mule carried four of these truly formidable things.

As the last mule passed, he slipped on the muddy slope, his feet flew

out, and down he came with a whack, torpedoes and all. You ought to have

seen us scatter,--officers, men, and mule-drivers,--like fragments of a

bursting shell. As the mule showed signs of struggling, we had to rush

back and gingerly remove the load before helping him up.

These torpedoes play a great part in war nowadays. They are cheap to

manufacture, carry an enormous bursting charge, and--shot out of small

mortar-like guns, into which the steel or wooden "stem" of the torpedo

is inserted--have a range of six or seven hundred yards. On days of

attack you can see them, like huge black birds, soar slowly up from

behind the trenches, hang poised for an instant, and dart down to make

their formidable explosion, which sends clouds of débris, timber, and

dirt, high into the air. Their fragments are very bad--long, thin,

jagged things that come whizzing by and inflict terrible wounds. Many of

them are equipped with "trailers," which outline their course in a

shower of crimson sparks; and on nights of attack the sky is scored with

their fiery trails.

A night attack is a wonderful thing to see: the steady solemn thunder of

the guns, the sky glaring with star-shells and trails, the trenches

flaming and roaring with bursting shell. It is like a vast natural

phenomenon,--Krakatoa or Mont Pelée,--too vast and cataclysmic to be

man's handiwork; and yet, into the maelstrom of spouting flames, hissing

steel, shattering explosions, insignificant little creatures like you

and me will presently run--offering, with sublime courage, their tender

bodies to be burned and pierced and mangled. To me that is war's one

redeeming feature--it brings out in men a courage that is of the spirit

alone--above all earthly things.

_April 23, 1917_

I am sitting again in the little post I told you about in my last

letter. The old lady is tidying up the café, the early morning sun is

shining in gayly through the many-paned windows, and outside, along the

picket-line, the mules are squealing and kicking while they have their

morning bath. Pretty soon I shall go out foraging for a brace of eggs,

and with these, a piece of cheese, and some coffee shall make my

déjeuner.

The local barrack is the only one I have found where one simply cannot

eat, as the cook and his kitchen are unspeakable. Unless he has been

caught out in a shower, he has certainly gone without a bath since the

war started. After a glance at him and at his kitchen even the most

callous poilu rebels.

We have now, attached to our section as mechanic, a French private who

is rather an unusual type--a rich manufacturer in civil life, who,

through some kink of character, has not risen in the army. He put in a

year in the trenches and then, being middle-aged, was put behind the

lines. He speaks English, is splendidly educated, and has traveled

everywhere, but is too indifferent to public opinion ever to make an

officer, or even a non-com. In his factory he had a packer, earning

seven francs a day, who was also mobilized, and who has now risen to

the rank of lieutenant. Think of the gulf between a poilu and a French

officer, with his authority, his galons and superb red-and-gold hat, and

then consider that this lieutenant's idea of a permission is to go home,

put on his oldest clothes, and spend the seven days working at his old

job of packing and heading barrels. It takes France to produce this sort

of thing.

The siege warfare to which, owing to strategic reasons, we are reduced

in our part of the lines, with both sides playing the part of besieged

and besiegers, gives rise to a curious unwritten understanding between

ourselves and the enemy. Take the hospital corps, their first-aid posts

and ambulances. The Germans must know perfectly well where the posts

are, but they scarcely ever shell them--not from any humanitarian

reason, but because if they did, the French would promptly blow theirs

to pieces. It is a curious sensation to live in such a place, with the

knowledge that this is the only reason you enjoy your comparative

safety. Likewise our ambulances. I often go over a road in perfectly

plain view of the Boche, only a few hundred yards distant, and though

shells and shrapnel often come my way, I am confident none of them are

aimed at me. The proof of it is that no one has ever taken a pot-shot at

me with rifle or machine-gun, either one of which would be a sure thing

at the range. The other day an officer invited me down to see his newly

completed observatory--a cunningly built, almost invisible stronghold on

the crest of a hill, which commanded a superb view of the trenches and

German territory behind them. It chanced to be an afternoon of unusual

interest. The trenches, about eight hundred yards distant, were spread

like a map beneath us,--a labyrinth of zigzag ditches and boyaux,--all

cunningly laid out on principles which I have been studying. With the

powerful glasses lent me, I could make out the thickets of wire before

the first lines. A heavy bombardment was in progress, and all along the

lines, as far as the eye could see, clouds of smoke and earth were

springing up and settling slowly down. Not a living being was in sight.

Far off to the south, a flock of observation balloons floated

motionless, high in air, like fat, hovering birds. Suddenly the man

beside me, who had been staring through his glasses at a twenty-acre

patch of woods a couple of miles away, gave an excited exclamation. "I

have spotted it--the new battery of heavy guns that has been annoying

us; they were too bold, for once."

Sure enough, I thought I made out a thin wisp of smoke trailing among

the tree-tops at the south end of the wood.

The officer muttered a string of cabalistic instructions into his

telephone receiver and motioned me to watch. A minute later, a battery

of French heavy guns behind us began their deep, coughing thumps,

sending enormous shells hurtling overhead with the pulsing rush of an

express train, crescendo and diminuendo. The first shell fell short,

showering the trees with earth and débris--the salvos that followed

obscured the whole wood in clouds of smoke, broken branches, and dust.

Twenty minutes of this before the battery went silent again. A final

tremendous explosion, eclipsing all that had gone before, seemed to

shake the trees to their roots.

"That will hold them for a while," said my friend exultantly, as he

telephoned the news back to his battery; "we must have hit their

magazine of propelling charges."

Next day I was sitting at lunch in our mess, distant about three

hundred yards from the observatory, when a series of heavy, racking

explosions made the windows rattle. There is a distinct difference

between the sound of a gun and that of a bursting shell. The first is a

cracking _bang_, or _boum_, as the French say. The latter is a racking,

dwelling roar--drawn out, if such a thing can be said of an explosion.

Shells were bursting somewhere close to us--many of them. When I went

outside I could hear, clear and waspish above the din, the _pinging_ of

splinters whizzing overhead, and the occasional crackle of a lopped-off

branch. After half an hour of this, a man came panting up with the bad

news that the new observatory was completely demolished. There you have

the inner workings of siege-war; the Boches, with uncanny craft, knew of

the observatory, let the French complete it, and might have let it

alone, had it not been instrumental in destroying their battery. That

led them into their indiscreet action, for the French, in retaliation,

promptly wiped off the map the most important German observatory--an

elaborate affair whose exact location they had long known. This time the

Boche did not dare retaliate. And so it goes.

There is a crack French gun-pointer near here who has brought down seven

enemy planes in the past two months--a remarkable record in this quiet

district. The last one fell close to one of our posts--its two

passengers, German lieutenants, were dead, but scarcely marked by their

drop into a snow-drift. One of them, a handsome young chap, with a

little blond mustache, wore a gold bracelet, and in his pocket was a

letter from his mother, accusing him of being an ungrateful son, who had

only written twice in six months. Rather pathetic. There is a sort of

chivalry in the air service which is a relief in the sordid monotony of

this war. A German plane was crippled a while ago, and had to volplane

down smack into a parade-ground where a French regiment was at drill.

The soldiers rushed out to make prisoners of the two German officers,

who were not a hundred yards up; but the latter, with indomitable

courage, loosed their Spandaus on the crowd, and were promptly riddled

with bullets by the reluctant French. They received a funeral in

accordance with their splendid death.

The code of the Prussian officer is never to surrender; but of course

all cannot live up to this. In a recent raid, a sergeant I know made a

prisoner of a German captain, who, as they walked to the rear, cursed

his luck in fluent French, saying that he was caught unaware--that an

officer never surrendered, but fought to the end.

"Stop here, my captain, and let us consider this," said the sergeant

seriously; "there are several articles of your equipment to which my

fancy runs--that watch, for example, those leather puttees, and that fat

purse I saw you change to your hip-pocket. Perhaps I can at once oblige

you and gratify my whim. Suppose you were suddenly to run--a quick shot

would save your honor, and me the trouble of escorting you back to the

rear. And I am an excellent shot, je vous assure." But the German was

not interested.

_April 26, 1917_

This afternoon the general of the division ordered us to present

ourselves at headquarters at four o'clock. From lunch on there was a

great shaving and haircutting, brushing and pressing of uniforms, and

overhauling of shoes and puttees. Four o'clock found us lined up at the

door of the wonderful old château, and next moment a superb officer,

who spoke English,--of the Oxford variety,--stepped out, introduced

himself all around with charming courtesy, took our names, and ushered

us in.

The general, a hawk-faced man of sixty, straight and slender as an

arrow, with sparkling dark eyes, stood surrounded by his resplendent

staff. As each name was announced, we walked forward to him, saluted and

bowed, and shook hands. This over, we stepped back and mingled with the

staff officers, who displayed a wonderful trick of making us feel at

home in the first stiffness. Presently orderlies brought in champagne

and glasses, and when every one had his glass in hand the buzz stopped

while the general spoke.

"Your country, gentlemen," he said, "has done France the honor of

setting aside this day for her. It is fitting that I should ask you

here, in order to tell you how much we appreciate America's friendship,

which you and your comrades have been demonstrating by actions rather

than words. I am an old man, but I tell you my heart beat like a boy's

when the news came that the great Sister Republic--united of old by

ideals of human liberty--had thrown in her lot with ours. I ask you to

drink with me to the future of France and America--the sure future. You

have seen France: our brave women, ready to make any sacrifices for the

motherland; our little soldiers, invincible in their determination. Let

us drink then to France, to America, and to the day of ultimate victory,

which is coming as surely as the sun will rise to-morrow."

As he ceased, he stepped forward to touch glasses with each of us,--the

invariable French custom,--and next moment a magnificent Chasseur band,

outside on the terrace, crashed into the "Star-Spangled Banner." Quite

thrilling, I assure you. Later, we strolled through the fine old

gardens, chatting with the officers while the band played. The general,

while the most military man imaginable, has a very attractive brusque

affability. We are a good-sized crowd as Americans run, and the French,

who average shorter and stockier, never cease to wonder at our height.

The old chap grabbed three or four of us by the shoulders and lined us

up.

"Mais vous êtes des gaillards," he said, smiling; "see, I am five or six

centimetres shorter than any of you. But wait, we have a giant or two."

With that he called over a grinning captain and pulled him back to back

with our biggest man, whom he topped by a full inch.

"But, my general," laughed the officer, "it is not good to be so

tall--too much of one sticks out of a trench."

The owner of the château--a stately woman of fifty, proud of her name,

her race, and her country, and an angel from heaven to the sick and poor

for miles around--is an example of the kind of patriotism of which, I

fear, we are in need. Her husband is dead; when the war broke out she

had a daughter and two sons--gallant young officers whose brief lives

had been a constant source of satisfaction and pride to their mother.

The elder was killed at the Marne, and a while ago, the younger, her

special pet, was killed here in an attack. A woman of her kind, to whom

the continuance of an old name was almost a religion, could undergo no

harder experience. At the grave-side she stood erect and dry-eyed, with

a little proud smile on her lips, as her last boy was buried. "Why

should I weep?" she asked some one who would have comforted her; "there

is nothing finer my boys could have done if they had lived out their

lives." Her heart must be very nearly broken in two, but never a sign

does she give; going about among her hospitals and peasant families as

cheerful, interested, even gay, as if her only cares were for others.

There is true courage for you!

To-day I went to a new post for some sick men, and who should be waiting

for me but my friend Jean, of whom I wrote you before! His company has

been transferred to this place. It was great to see his grinning face

and to chatter Spanish with him. As the sick men had not finished lunch,

Jean asked me to his mess, and we had a jolly meal with his pals. I have

had to give up wine, as it seems to blacken our teeth horribly (all

of us have noticed it, and we can trace it to no other source),

and the Frenchmen can't get over the joke of seeing one drink

water--extraordinary stuff to drink! All right to run under bridges or

for washing purposes, but as a beverage--a quaint American conceit,

handed down no doubt from the red aborigines--les peaux rouges

indigènes--of our continent. Jean admitted that since December, 1914, he

had not tasted water, and no one else could remember the last occasion

when he had tried it.