“A month and a half was long enough for us on the Cheman de Damns front.
We _parteed_ ’bout March fifteenth or so and got on another one of them
funny little trains—didn’t stay on long—only ’bout fifteen hours.
“Detrained at Château-Brienne and started hiking over the road to our
rest-camp. We was due for a rest, also furloughs. But I ain’t seen
neither of them things so far. That country down there sure was the darb
for us. It was just turnin’ off kind of spring-like and warm, too. We
were the first Americans to go through that section, and the
people—honest, O. D., they must have thought that we were American Joans
of Arc. Everybody came rushin’ to the doors and waved to us. The
mademoiselles threw us kisses by the bushel. I got so excited that I
muffed most of ’em that came my way.
“After bein’ up in that mud-coated front country where you hardly ever
saw human bein’s, just soldiers, and where all of the houses had holes
in ’em and the gardens were all torn up by shells, it was great to get
back where the fields was green and people smiled and said nice things.
I was gettin’ to this French stuff ’bout that time and I could _compree_
a little of what they said.
“Our first stop was at a little town called Dienville. We blew in with
the band playin’ and everybody happy. The villagers gave us the hell of
a fine welcome and made us feel to home _toot sweet_. Right after I put
my horse on the picket-line and camouflaged my equipment I started
lookin’ for something to monjay and a place to _cushay_. First store I
hit was a baker shop—_boulangerie_, they say in _Fransay_. The shop was
full of women and little girls. They was talkin’ a mile a minute. That’s
the fastest thing they do in this country, you know, _parley_—and every
few minutes I could hear ’em say ‘_Américains—Américains_.’
“Finally I asked ’bout _monjayin’_ and they told me where the restaurant
was. I never had tried to get a _chambre_ before, but I got _parleyin’_
’bout a place to _cushay_, and a little girl ’bout twelve years old and
pretty—listen to me, O. D., that child was the darb of a _petite
mademoiselle_. She asked her mother how ’bout my stayin’ with them, or
it sounded that way to me. Course I said in my foolish French,
‘_Keskesay?_’ which means, What did you say?
“The mademoiselle was a little timid. Guess I’m kind of hard to look at,
anyway. She got closer to her mother, but she didn’t hide them pretty
blue eyes. Looked me straight in the face and said her mother, the
madame, would fix me up on the _cushay_ stuff. Then I got kind of brave
myself and went over to her and her mother. The girl put her hand in
mine _toot sweet_ and said, ‘_Comrade_.’ I never was much for bein’
’round children, but I grabbed her and threw her up and down like I have
seen daddies do. She kissed me smack on the cheek and said her name was
Louise.
“That little mademoiselle’s kiss was the first one I had in a long time,
O. D. Sometimes I still get the taste of it, as I ’ain’t had another
since. Louise and the madame was more than _jauntee_, which as I
_compree_ it means nice, or kind. They fed me _dey zerfs_, _der
lay_—that’s eggs and milk—and _beaucoup pom de tear fritz_ for every
_monjay_. I _cu-shayed_ in a real _lee_—Frog for bed—that night, and
honest it took me near three hours to get asleep, the bed was so soft.
Next mornin’ I fooled ’em and didn’t answer _reveille_—_cushayed_ till
’bout nine bells and got up, shaved with real hot water, washed as far
down my neck as my hand could go and sure felt fittin’ for anything.
“Louise had beat it to school, but the madame saved a big bowl of
_café-ooo-lay_—O. D., if you ever drink a bowl of real French
_café-ooo-lay_ you’ll never be satisfied with that stuff they serve in
Childs’ or the Waldorf. It’s coffee with _beaucoup_ hot milk, and it
sure is the darb. Along with that _café-ooo-lay_ I had a hunk of regular
_du pan_. Frog bread is _bon_ when it’s made right—and some _du
burre_—butter, you know. Madame kept _parleyin’_ somethin’ ’bout _dey
zerfs_—which are eggs in American—but I told her that I’d wait till
dinner to _monjay_ the omelet.
“While I was gettin’ away with the _petite dayjunay_—as madame called
what I was monjayin’—she told me that her _marrieh_, her husband, was a
lieutenant in the Frog artillery—_swasont kans_—which means the same as
our three-inch pieces. Showed me _beaucoup_ pictures of the old man and
lots of souvenirs. He’d been in the _guerre_ three and a half
years—wounded three times. I began thinkin’ that us Americans didn’t
have so much kick comin’ bein’ as how we were about four years late in
gettin’ in against the Kaiser.
“When Louise came home from school she took me out for a walk. Say, you
ought to have seen the guys pike me off. ‘What you doin’, Jimmy,
teachin’ kindergarten?’ lots of ’em asked me. I told ’em no, that she
was my _fiancée_ and was goin’ to _partee_ to _Amérique_ with me. Louise
_compreed_ that line and said, ‘_Oui_’ all the time.
“There was a band concert in the little square that afternoon, and,
believe me, the Frogs sure enjoyed it. They hadn’t heard any music since
the _guerre_ started, except the church organ, I guess. I had a flock of
little mademoiselles hangin’ on to me by that time, as Louise was mighty
popular with ’em all. Course, as luck would have it, I had a bar or two
of chocolate in my jeans, and I handed it over to Louise and her little
friends. Boy, they thought I was a regular Santa Claus after that.
“When we left Dienville two days later all the kids in the village was
cryin’ because the Americans was _parteein’_. I sure got to hand it to
those people in that place, they was the old darb for us. Course things
has changed a good deal since then—we ain’t new to the Frogs any more
and lots of ’em with stuff to sell have found out that we get a darn
sight more _frankers_ a month than the Frog army pays.
“We hiked ’bout five days or so, stoppin’ every night in some village
and finally got to the area which was to be our rest-camp. Just got
settled in the billets when we got an order to _partee toot sweet_. We
was kinda sore, but most of us said, ‘_Say la guerre_,’ and let it go at
that. Nobody knew what the hell it meant as we was miles from newspapers
and telegraph wires, and never got any news of the _guerre_. That’s how
we started the seventeen-day hike from down around Joinville straight up
to the Toul front.
“That hike was one of the worst things we bucked against durin’ this
_guerre_. There wasn’t but two days on which the sun came out at all. It
rained day and night. The roads was all mud and so slippery that the men
and horses was slidin’ all over the place. There wasn’t no way to carry
fresh rations, so we _monjayed_ ‘corn willy,’ black coffee, and hardtack
seventeen days straight. The horses had a hell of a time, too, as there
never was enough hay and oats for all of ’em to _monjay_ at one time.
Guess we covered ’bout twenty-two kilofloppers every day. Never got up
later than three bells in the mornin’ and generally got to _cushay_
around _nerver_. That’s nine o’clock in this country.
“When we hit a town at night we had to stretch a picket-line for the
_chevaux_, then water and feed ’em. After that we could feed ourselves
and hunt a _chambre_ or hayloft to _cushay_. As a rule, the _chambres_
was all for the officers when we got to ’em. We sure had a tough time
hikin’ across this damn country. Never did get warm the whole time.
’Bout that time my old feet began to get _malade_. Whenever you hear a
Frog say _malade_ you’ll know they’re talkin’ about bein’ sick. They was
so cold all the time until they would swell up overnight and in the
mornin’ you had a fat chance of gettin’ your shoes on, as those darn
hobnails used to shrink up like a pair of white-flannel britches do
after washin’ ’em. One mornin’ the old feet was so bad that I had to
wear a pair of those wooden boats ’round. The doctors call feet like I
had trench feet. I’ve had ’em ever since. Wear tens now; used to wear
eights and a half back in civilian days.”