Most of us, in our travels abroad, have observed the closed trucks
which are employed upon French railways, and which bear the legend--
_Hommes_.... 40
_Chevaux_.... 8
Doubtless we have wondered, idly enough, what it must feel like to be
one of the forty hommes. Well, now we know.
When we landed, we were packed into a train composed of fifty such
trucks, and were drawn by a mighty engine for a day and a night across
the pleasant land of France. Every six hours or so we were indulged
with a _Halte Répas_. That is to say, the train drew up in a siding,
where an officer with R.T.O. upon his arm made us welcome, and
informed us that hot water was available for taking tea. Everybody had
two days' rations in his haversack, so a large-scale picnic followed.
From the horse-trucks emerged stolid individuals with canvas
buckets--you require to be fairly stolid to pass the night in a closed
box, moving at twenty miles an hour, in company with eight riotous
and insecurely tethered mules--to draw water from the hydrant which
supplied the locomotives. The infant population gathered round, and
besought us for "souvenirs," the most popular taking the form of
"biskeet" or "bully-boeuf." Both were given freely: with but little
persuasion our open-handed warriors would have fain squandered their
sacred "emergency ration" upon these rapacious infants.
After refreshment we proceeded to inspect the station. The centre of
attraction was the French soldier on guard over the water-tank. Behold
this same sentry confronted by Private Mucklewame, anxious to comply
with Divisional Orders and "lose no opportunity of cultivating the
friendliest relations with those of our Allies whom you may chance to
encounter." So Mucklewame and the sentry (who is evidently burdened
with similar instructions) regard one another with shy smiles, after
the fashion of two children who have been introduced by their nurses
at a party.
Presently the sentry, by a happy inspiration, proffers his bayonet
for inspection, as it were a new doll. Mucklewame bows solemnly, and
fingers the blade. Then he produces his own bayonet, and the two
weapons are compared--still in constrained silence. Then Mucklewame
nods approvingly.
"Verra goody!" he remarks, profoundly convinced that he is speaking
the French language.
"Olrigh! Tipperaree!" replies the sentry, not to be outdone in
international courtesy.
Unfortunately, the further cementing of the Entente Cordiale is
frustrated by the blast of a whistle. We hurl ourselves into our
trucks; the R.T.O. waves his hand in benediction; and the regiment
proceeds upon its way, packed like herrings, but "all jubilant with
song."