Jimmy McGee and O. D., alias William G. Preston, made a great contrast
as they plodded up and down hill along the tree-lined route over which
passed in 1914 the stream of Paris taxicabs that brought French poilus
to the heights of Verdun in time for Papa Joffre to stop the mad advance
of the Prussians.
To the uninitiated, O. D., with his regulation pack and uniform
equipment, would most likely have been immediately picked for the better
soldier of the two. Jimmy McGee, habitué of the ragged battle-lines, and
showing the wear and tear of fighting in everything about him, save his
eyes, would have been dubbed a slouch. Which just goes to prove how
different are the standards of measurements and worth that obtain at the
front and in the S. O. S. Everything and everybody at the front is
discounted until nothing but naked realities show. There is no chance
for the superficial to flourish in the trenches and gun positions.
The pair had made about three kilometers when the sound of an
approaching auto warned Jimmy McGee to take to the bushes. He lost no
time in getting off the road. O. D. followed him with the statement that
he believed it was a general’s limousine coming.
“Let it come—we don’t need to see it. Just sit down and look the other
way. No use tryin’ to break our arms with that salutin’ stuff,” was the
reply.
Both men sat down facing the woods. There was a sound of tires scraping
the road, under pressure of quickly applied brakes. A door opened and
slammed shut.
“What outfit are you men from?” The question was asked in a heavy,
steady voice.
McGee and O. D. stood up and faced about to find themselves confronted
by a major-general. They saluted. McGee spoke up.
“Twenty-sixth Division, sir.”
“What are you doing straggling along this road?” asked the general.
“Just returnin’ to our outfits from the hospital, sir,” lied McGee, with
a feeling of glory.
“All right, men.”
The man with two stars on his shoulders stepped back into the warmth and
luxury of his chugging motor and was off in a swirl of dust that nearly
choked the two soldiers. McGee caught himself in the act of reaching for
his old, battle-scarred gas-mask.
“Gee! he was a major-general,” declared O. D. in an awed voice; “did you
see the two stars on his straps?” gasped the newcomer to Jimmy’s
hunting-grounds.
“_Oui_, I noticed them all right, but they didn’t mean nothin’ to me.
Generals don’t count much up there,” pointing in the general direction
of the front. “We see plenty of other things that’s more interestin’.
Course, you know, I generally salute officers from brigadier-generals
up—that is, when they see me first; but you get used to havin’ ’em
around you,” was Jimmy’s rejoinder.
“First time I ever had a general speak to me,” admitted O. D.
“Hell afire! I’ve had a dozen of ’em talk to me. Old General
Edwards—he’s our boss, you know, and some boy at that, too—gave me an
awful bawlin’-out one day on a hike when he caught me ridin’ on the
rollin’ kitchen. Then another time he came into my dug-out one day and
told me that the C. O. had said something good about a fool stunt I
pulled one night when our lines went down and we kept up communication
durin’ the bombardment and attack. Said he’d cite me, or somethin’ like
that, but I never bothered to find out much about the business. Believe
me, Edwards is the kind of man this army needs with a general’s stars
on. He gets right in the old _guerre_. Some of ’em fight the war back in
towns that the Boches have agreed not to shell. Say, by the way, ever
see Pershing down in the S. O. S.?” asked Jimmy, as he got started under
way again.
“Yes, once, when some French general gave him a medal or something. It
was quite a ceremony,” replied his new companion.
“What did he look like? Kinda curious, as I ain’t seen him yet.”
“Do you mean that you are right at the front and never see the general?”
The question was crowded with incredulity.
“Been on every front the Americans ever fought on, except the British
lines, and never seen Pershing yet,” maintained McGee.
“Whee-ew! I thought that he was at the front all of the time leading the
troops,” said O. D.
“No that Civil War stuff ain’t much in this _guerre_. Generals are like
the flags and bands at the time we go over—they ain’t there, as a rule,”
informed the man who knew about those things.
“Three kilometers to Issoncourt, according to that mile-stone,” said
O. D. after they had hiked about four more kilos.
“Don’t believe those things. Next one will say seven kilometers to
Issoncourt. That’s the way they build those things in this country. You
’ain’t arrived over here until you get there.”
“Looks like a nice town over yonder.” O. D. illustrated his words by
pointing to the cluster of red roofs that glared in the afternoon
sunlight.
“Looks—but that’s all. They’re all alike. At a distance you think these
darn French villages are the cat’s knee-knuckles, so to speak, but when
you get in them it’s the same old stuff—a bunch of old, moss-covered
buildings standin’ around a church that’s big enough for an Irish parish
in a big New York City precinct. A gang of cows in the street; an army
of sheep and goats runnin’ in and out of front doors; a few
hungry-looking dogs; _beaucoup_ manure smoking in front of every door;
some old men and women clatterin’ up and down in those wooden shoes—and
you’ve got the best French village I ever stayed in. I’d rather pass the
rest of my life in Yulee, Florida, than spend three months in one of
these places durin’ peace-times. There’s a few trains pass through
Yulee, and you get a newspaper once in a while; but in these French
dumps the biggest excitement is that old village crier with his drum and
line of talk that the inhabitants can’t _compree_, or a two-year-old
newspaper posted up on the city hall, or _Mairie_, as they call it. I’m
off ’em for life.”
It was only four o’clock when the pair reached Issoncourt, but already
the shades of oncoming night had started to curtain the early autumn day
with a sort of purple haze that soon became a regular night mist.
“Guess we’ll camp here for the night,” was Jimmy’s decision, as he noted
the signs of night coming.
Issoncourt had been attached to the sides of the main Verdun road, and
everything that the town owned was in plain view from the middle of the
street, or _Grande Rue_, as the villagers called the roadway.
“Looks like there might be a _chambre_ in that house. We’ll reconnoiter
a bit for a place to _cushay_,” and Jimmy started toward what he thought
was the best-looking house on the street.
Just as they reached the rough stone steps, after wading through the
usual three feet of mud, a young colt came tearing through a barn door
and nearly sent O. D. down for the count. Jimmy tapped at the door.
“_Entrez_,” called a woman’s voice.
McGee pushed the door in and both men stepped into the room. It was the
same old stuff to Jimmy. The room was big and contained two beds that
were built into the walls and canopied over with some kind of red
curtain. A rickety table with a half-emptied bottle of _vin rouge_ on it
stood in the center of the room. There was the usual number of chickens
passing in and out to the barn. Several cats lounged about the great
open fireplace that was bare of fire, except for a few pieces of smoking
things that looked like grape-vines. A dog got up somewhere in the
darkness and shook himself back to life. The woman who had told them to
enter was not in sight.
Suddenly the sound of wooden shoes rattling over stones announced the
approach of some one. A woman came in from the barn carrying an apron
full of potatoes and greens. A small army of chickens followed at a
respectful distance. The woman was of medium height, kind of pudgy
around the gills and places where a corset should have been. Her hands
were red and big enough to handle any one-hundred-and-sixty-pound man.
Of course, she wasn’t good-looking or particularly ugly, just an
ordinary peasant face.
“_Que désirez-vous, Messieurs?_” (What will you have, messieurs?)
“Eh—_bonjour, madame_,” began Jimmy, unsteadily. “_Avey vouse de chambre
for comrade_ and _moi_?”
The woman cocked her ear to get the drift. “_Chambre—pour coucher?_” she
asked.
“Ah, _oui, madame_,” assured Jimmy, picking up courage.
The woman dropped her load of potatoes and greens on the floor, kicked
off the wooden boats, and, telling them to follow her, waddled into the
next and only room in the house.
“_Voilà!_” (There), she exclaimed, pointing to a bed that was at least
seven feet high.
“_Bon—tres-beans, madame_,” to the woman. Then Jimmy turned to O. D.:
“We may need a step-ladder to get in and a pulley to get us out; but
_say la guerre_. It’s a hundred times better than a hay-loft.”
“Sure,” said O. D., enthusiastically.
“_Madame, monjay ici?_” was Jimmy’s next effort.
“_Mais, messieurs, je n’ai rien! Trés-difficile d’obtenir quoi que ce
soit depuis la guerre! Figuerez-vous, une livre de sucre pour une
personne par mois! Et du pain! O là là! C’est terrible, vous comprenz?_”
(Oh, messieurs, I have very little. Too difficult to get things since
the war started. One pound of sugar a person for a month, a ration of
bread. It’s terrible, you understand?), answered the woman, evasively.
“_Oui, madame, compree_; but _comrade, moi_, no _monjay. Beaucoup
hungry. Beaucoup fatigue. Compree?_” questioned McGee, tapping his
stomach as if it were an empty bag.
“_Oui_,” answered the _madame_, solemnly.
“_Omelette, pom du tear fritz, trey-bon vous, serve comrade, moi, s’il
vous plate._” Jimmy did his darnest to tell her what he was thinking.
She understood him after the fashion of the French people who had been
near American soldiers before. Most of the peasants in the regions where
many American soldiers were located soon learned to speak their native
French just as brokenly as the Americans. It was necessary to do so in
order that the likes of Jimmy McGee might _compree_ just a little bit.
After much puffing and running around, the woman finally set a table for
her hungry guests. A fifteen-egg omelet, _beaucoup_ French-fried
potatoes, what was left of Jimmy’s bread, a dish of white cheese, and a
tall bottle of wine awaited the offensive of the two Americans.
“Ah, _madame_,” said McGee, licking his chops, “I’ll say that’s the
_darb_——”
“_Qu’est-ce qu’il dit?_” (What did you say?)
“Oh, I said its mighty _bon—beaucoup monjay_, you _compree moi_?”
The peasant woman smiled at him as if she understood, and Jimmy made a
dive into the middle of the big yellow omelet.
“Gee, this is the best feed I’ve sat down to in a long, long time,”
admitted O. D. as he piled the brown potatoes knee-deep in his plate.
“Wish I could speak French like you do, I’d be able to keep from
starving.”
“Oh, I don’t _parley_ much, just enough to get along. Course, I never
have any time to study. If we get a chance I’ll teach you some of the
stuff.”
“Thanks. Say, wonder if you could get her to give me a drink of water.
I’ll pass away with this thirst.”
“Here, take a glass of the _vin rouge_. It may be better than the stuff
I had in my canteen,” offered Jimmy.
“No, believe I’d rather have the water, if you can get it without too
much trouble.”
“None t’all. Wait ’till the madame blows in again; I’ll see what we can
do.”
“_Madame, avey vous der low?_” asked Jimmy, hoping that she would get
his meaning.
“_Der low_,” repeated the woman, lost for a moment. “_Der low_,” again.
This time with great wondering, “_Pas compris, monsieur_.”
“_Cum see, cum saw_,” explained McGee, raising an empty glass to his
lips.
“_Oh, pardon, monsieur, pardon, oui, tout de suite._” She hurried over
to the wall and pulled a part of it out, found a cupboard where nobody
else would have ever dreamed there was one, and drew forth a glass. She
brought the glass to Jimmy and gave it to him.
“She didn’t get me,” groaned Jimmy. “Thought I wanted another glass,
just like a Frog.” Then to the woman, “_Madame, compree low, der low_,
drink, you _savvy_?” he floundered deeper.
The woman shook her head while McGee scanned the room in search of a
pump or something by which he might readily explain his desire. There
was nothing in sight to help him. He turned again to the waiting woman.
“_Madame, moi comrade—no van rouge_—no _pas bon_ for _comrade_.
_Kisskesay, der low_, water, in _Fransay_?” Jimmy was at the limit of
his resources.
“Never mind, old man, I’ll go without it,” said O. D., coming to the
rescue.
“_Der low, der low_,” muttered the woman shaking her head
uncomprehendingly and pronouncing the word just as Jimmy had done.
Suddenly a light flashed across her stolid features.
“_De l’eau, vous dites._” (Water you said.)
“_Oui, Oui, madame._”
“_Ah, mon Dieu, de l’eau, je comprends_,” and she dashed out of doors
with a small bucket.
“At last she gets it—some battlin’, though. These doggone French people
can’t _compree_ this water stuff. Maybe if they’d drink more water the
war’d be won faster. But I’m getting just like ’em—haven’t had any water
in four days myself now. Guess I’ll tank up to-night.”
Madame returned with the water and immediately poured it all in a basin,
grabbed some soap and a towel and brought the whole outfit over to
Jimmy.
“_Voilà!_” she exclaimed as if the _guerre_ was won.
Jimmy looked at the basin, the soap and towel. Then he looked long and
hard at O. D. The woman stood fast, regarding them both, feeling
suddenly guilty of having sinned again.
“Corporal of the guard, relief, post number one,” shouted Jimmy. “Can
you beat that, wouldn’t it drive a man nuts? I ask for a drink of water
and the woman insists that I wash. No use, O. D.” Then to the woman,
“_Madame, pas wash, cum saw_,” and he lifted the glass to his lips for
the second time.
_“Quoi? Boire de l’eau? Impossible!! Buvez donc du vin! quelle race! Eh!
mon Dieu! ils bovvent de l’eau!_” (What! you want water to drink.
Impossible. Drink the red wine. What people—what people! My God! they
drink water), exclaimed the mystified woman, and she nearly went into
fits.
“_Oui, madame_,” insisted Jimmy, raising the glass up and down as if to
convince her by that action of the sincerity of his words and meaning.
“_Comme vous voulent, messieurs!_” (As you will then, messieurs),
answered madame, and she went out for more water.
Just as the boys were hitting the cheese or _fromage_ course as Jimmy
insisted on calling it, the man of the house, or _patron_, as madame
called him, blew in. He was nothing more and nothing less than a
grizzled old poilu rigged up in civilian clothes.
“_Bon swoir, messieurs_,” was his hearty greeting.
“_Bonjour, monsieur_,” responded Jimmy, rising to shake his hand.
“_Bonne mangee?_” asked the Frenchman, pointing to the table.
“_Oui ... trey-bien_,” declared McGee, and he let out two notches in his
belt to prove that he was well fed.
The old man dragged up a chair and made believe he was going to roll a
cigarette. Jimmy saw the act and got wise.
“Here, have a regular cigarette,” he said, extending a pack of Piedmonts
to the _patron_.
“_Merci. Merci, monsieur._”
“Take ’em all. I can get more. Suppose we ain’t too near the front yet
for the Y. M. C. A.”
“_Ah, monsieur, vous êtes très?-gentil, très bon._” (Ah, sir, you are
very nice, very kind.)
“Not at all.”
Once the cigarette was lighted, the man of the house waddled over to the
cupboard and extracted a long dark bottle. He came back to the table,
measured out four glasses of brownish-looking stuff and handed them
around. He touched his own against every one else’s and shouted:
“_Vive l’Amérique!_”
“_Vive la France!_” shouted Jimmy.
The old cognac went down at a swallow. Everyone smacked their lips
except O. D. He busied himself brushing away two big tears that filled
his eyes.
“_Bon_,” grunted the Frenchman.
“_Ah, oui_,” answered Jimmy, patting his stomach.
“_Mangee_,” said the husband. He sat down with his wife to a meal of
soup, with bread floating around in it, a dish of boiled potatoes,
bread, cheese, and wine.
“Want to show you something, Jimmy,” said O. D., rising and getting an
envelope out of his blouse. He spread a lot of pictures in front of
Jimmy.
“That’s mother, in her little rose-garden. This is Mary, always loved
flowers, too. See she’s hiding behind some tall lilies, just so you can
see her face.”
“Gee, I can’t tell the difference between Mary and the lilies,”
interrupted Jimmy, admiringly, as he looked upon the picture of Mary’s
sweet, girlish face. “Golly! it must be pippin stuff to have a sister
like that.”
“Here’s some more of Mary, taken on the front stoop and one at the shore
when I took her down there to go swimming one hot day.”
Jimmy was so absorbed looking at Mary’s pictures that he didn’t hear the
madame’s inquisitive question.
“_Fiancée, fiancée?_” she asked, pointing to Mary’s photo.
“No,” answered Jimmy at last, “sister, _compree_? _Sœur_ to _comrade_,”
pointing to O. D., who nodded his head in affirmation.
The snap of Mary taken on the beach fascinated Jimmy. He decided it
should belong to him. When O. D. was not watching, the Yank who never
let Boche shells or gas worry him swept the picture under his blouse
with a strange feeling of unrest running through his body and soul.