been out in company of a friend, making his habitual daily tour of the
city. Like most middle aged, well-to-do bourgeois his attire was
composed of a pair of light trousers, slightly baggy at the knee, and a
bit flappy about the leg; a black cutaway jacket and a white piqué
waistcoat. This classic costume usually comports a panama hat and an
umbrella. Now Monsieur S. had the umbrella, but in place of the panama
he had seen fit to substitute a blue steel soldier's helmet, which
amazing military headgear made a strange combination with the remainder
of his civilian apparel. Nevertheless he bowed to us very skilfully,
and at that moment I caught sight of a leather strap, which slung over
one shoulder, hung down to his waist and carried his gas mask.
[Illustration: MONSIEUR S. OF SOISSONS WITH HIS GAS MASK]
For several days I laboured under the impression that this mode was
quite unique, but was soon proved mistaken, for on going to the Post
Office to get my mail (three carriers having been killed, there were no
longer any deliveries) I discovered that it was little short of
general. Several ladies had even dared risk the helmet, and the whole
assembly took on a war like aspect that was quite apropos.
Thus adorned, the octogenarian Abbé de Villeneuve, his umbrella swung
across his back, his cassock tucked up so as to permit him to ride a
bicycle, was a sight that I shall never forget.
"Why, Monsieur le Curé, you've quite the air of a sportsman."
"My child, let me explain. You see I can no longer trust to my legs,
they're too old and too rheumatic. Well then, when a bombardment sets
in how on earth could I get home quickly without my bicycle?"
As visitors to the front, we were guests of the French Red Cross
Society while in Soissons. The local president, whose deeds of heroism
have astonished the world at large, is an old-time personal friend.
A luncheon in our honour was served on a spotless cloth, in the only
room of that lady's residence which several hundred days of constant
bombardment had still left intact. Yet, save for the fact that paper
had replaced the window panes, nothing betrayed the proximity of the
German. Through the open, vine grown casement, I could look out onto a
cleanly swept little court whose centre piece of geraniums was a
perfect riot of colour.
Around the congenial board were gathered our hostess, the old Curé de
St. Vast, the General in command of the Brigade, his Colonel, three
Aides-de-Camp, my husband and myself.
Naturally, the topic of conversation was the war, but strange as it may
seem, it was we, the civilians, that were telling our friends of the
different activities that were afoot and would eventually bring the
United States to the side of the Allies.
Towards the middle of the repast our enemies began sending over a few
shells and presently a serious bombardment was under way. Yet no one
stirred.
Dishes were passed and removed, and though oft times I personally felt
that the pattering of shrapnel on the tin roof opposite was
uncomfortably close, I was convinced there was no theatrical display of
bravery, no cheap heroism in our companions' unconsciousness. They
were interested in what was being said--_voilà tout_.
Presently, however, our hostess leaned towards me and I fancied she was
about to suggest a trip cellarward, instead of which she whispered that
on account of the bombardment we were likely to go without dessert
since it had to come from the other side of town and had not yet
arrived.
Then a shell burst quite close, and at the same time the street bell
rang. The _cordon_ was pulled, and through the aperture made by the
backward swing of the great door, I caught sight of a ruddy cheeked,
fair haired maiden in her early teens, bearing a huge bowl of fresh
cream cheese in her outstretched hands.
Steadily she crossed the court, approached the window where she halted,
smiled bashfully, set down her precious burden, and timidly addressing
our hostess:
"I'm sorry, Madame," said she, "so sorry if I have made you wait."
And so it goes.
I remember a druggist who on greeting me exclaimed:
"A pretty life, is it not, for a man who has liver trouble?" And yet
he remained simply because it was a druggist's duty to do so when all
the others are mobilised.
There was also the printer of a local daily, who continued to set up
his type with one side of his shop blown out; who went right on
publishing when the roof caved in, and who actually never ceased doing
so until the whole structure collapsed, and a falling wall had
demolished his only remaining press.
Monsieur le Préfet held counsel and deliberated in a room against whose
outside wall one could hear the constant patter of machine gun bullets
raining thick from the opposite bank of the river. Monsieur Muzart,
the Mayor, seemed to be everywhere at once, and was always the first on
the spot when anything really serious occurred.
Add to these the little dairy maids, who each morning fearlessly
delivered the city's milk; or the old fellow on whom had devolved the
entire responsibility of the street-cleaning department and who went
about, helmet clad, attending to his chores, now and then shouting a
hearty "_Whoa Bijou_" to a faithful quadruped who patiently dragged his
dump cart, and over whose left ear during the entire Summer, was tied a
bunch of tri-colour field flowers.
I had almost forgotten to mention two extraordinary old women, whom I
came upon seated out in a deserted street, making over a mattress,
while gently discussing their private affairs. It was the end of a
warm July afternoon. A refreshing coolness had begun to rise from the
adjacent river, and in the declining sunlight I could see great swarms
of honey bees hovering about a climbing rose bush whose fragrant
blossoms hung in huge clusters over the top of a convent wall near by.
I could not resist the temptation. Pressed by the desire to possess I
stepped forward and was about to reach upward when a masculine voice,
whose owner was hidden somewhere near my elbow called forth:
"Back, I say! Back! you're in sight!"
I quickly dived into the shadow for cover just in time to hear the
bullets from a German machine gun whizz past my ear!
"You can trust them to see everything," murmured one of the old women,
not otherwise disturbed. "But if you really want some roses just go
around the block and in by the back gate, Madame."
How in the presence of such calm can we believe in war?
Ah, France! elsewhere perhaps there may be just as brave--but surely
none more sweetly!
III
The little village was just behind the lines. The long stretch of
roadway, that following the Aisne finally passed through its main
street, had been so thoroughly swept by German fire that it was as
though pockmarked by ruts and shell holes, always half full of muddy
water.
A sign to the left said--
_Chemin, défilé de V._--
There could be no choice; there was but to follow the direction
indicated, branch out onto a new highway which, over a distance of two
or three miles, wound in and out with many strategic contortions; a
truly military route whose topography was the most curious thing
imaginable. If by accident there happened to be a house in its way it
didn't take the trouble to go _around_, but _through_ the edifice.
One arrived thus in the very midst of the village, having involuntarily
traversed not only the notary's flower garden, but also his
drawing-room, if one were to judge by the quality of the now much faded
wall paper, and the empty spots where portraits used to hang.
The township had served as target to the German guns for many a long
month, and was seriously _amoché_, as the saying goes. "Coal scuttles"
by the hundred had ripped the tiles from almost every roof. Huge
breaches gaped in other buildings, while some of them were completely
levelled to the ground. Yet, in spite of all, moss, weeds and vines
had sprung up mid the ruins, adding, if possible, the picturesque to
this scene of desolation. One robust morning glory I noted had climbed
along a wall right into the soot of a tumble-down chimney, and its
fairylike blossoms lovingly entwined the iron bars whereon had hung and
been smoked many a succulent ham.
The territorials (men belonging to the older army classes), had
installed their mess kitchens in every convenient corner: some in the
open court-yards and others beneath rickety stables and sheds, where
the sunlight piercing the gloom caught the dust in its rays and made it
seem like streams of golden powder, whose brightness enveloped even the
most sordid nooks and spread cheer throughout the dingy atmosphere.
Fatigue squads moved up and down the road, seeking or returning with
supplies, while those who were on duty, pick and shovel in hand, moved
off to their work in a casual, leisurely manner one would hardly term
military.
Of civilians there remained but few. Yet civilians there were, and of
the most determined nature: "hangers-on" who when met in this vicinity
seemed almost like last specimens of an extinct race, sole survivors of
the world shipwreck.
At the moment of our arrival an old peasant woman was in the very act
of scolding the soldiers, who to the number of two hundred and fifty (a
whole company) filled to overflowing her modest lodgings, where it
seemed to me half as many would have been a tight squeeze. It was
naturally impossible for her to have an eye on all of them. In her
distress she took me as witness to her trials.
"Just see," she vociferated, "they trot through my house with their
muddy boots, they burn my wood, they're drying up my well, and on top
of it all they persist in smoking in my hay-loft, and the hay for next
Winter is in! Shouldn't you think their Officers would look after
them? Why, I have to be a regular watch-dog, I do!"
"That's all very well, mother," volunteered a little dried up Corporal.
"But how about _their_ incendiary shells? You'll get one of them
sooner or later. See if you don't!"
"If it comes, we'll take it; we've seen lots worse than that! Humph!
That's no reason why you should mess up a house that belongs to your
own people, is it? I'd like to know what your wife would say if she
caught you smoking a pipe in her hay loft?"
Shouts of laughter from the culprits. Then a tall, lean fellow, taking
her side, called out:
"She's right, boys, she had a hard enough job getting the hay in all by
herself. Put out your pipes since that seems to get on her nerves.
Now then, mother, there's always a way of settling a question between
honest people. We won't smoke in your hay any more; that is, provided
you'll sell us fresh vegetables for our mess."
The old woman was trapped and had to surrender, which she did, but most
ungraciously, all the while moaning that she would more than likely die
of starvation the following Winter. So a moment later the group
dispersed on hearing the news that the "Auto-bazaar" had arrived.
This auto-bazaar certainly contained more treasures than were ever
dreamed of in ancient Golconda. There was everything the soldier's
heart might desire, from gun grease and cigarette paper down to wine
and provisions; the whole stored away in a literal honey-comb of
shelves and drawers with which the sides were lined.
The men all hurried forward. Loaded with water bottles, their hands
full of coppers, they clustered about it.
From his dominating position at the rear end of the truck, the
store-keeper announced:
"No more pork pie left!"
This statement brought forth several indignant oaths from the
disappointed.
"It's always that way, they're probably paid to play that joke on us.
It was the same story last time! We'll send in a complaint. See if we
don't."
But these grumblings were soon outvoiced by the announcement--
"Plenty of head-cheese and camembert. Now then! boys, who's ready?"
The effect was instantaneous.
Smiles broke out on every countenance. The good news was quickly
spread abroad, and presently the sound of plates and dishes, clinking
cups, and joyful laughter recalled a picnic which we had organised in
the vicinity, one warm July afternoon some four years ago.
A military band rehearsing a march in an open field just behind us
added life and gaiety to the scene, and reminded me of the
"Merry-go-round," the chief attraction of that defunct country fair,
and upon which even the most dignified of our friends had insisted
riding.
After all, could it be possible that this was the very midst of war?
Was it such a terrible thing, since the air fairly rung with merriment?
"Make room there," called a gruff voice, not far distant.
"Stand aside! Quick now!"
The crowd parted, and a couple of stretcher bearers with their sad
human burden put an end to my soliloquy. My afternoon was stained with
blood. On their litter they bore a lad whose bloodless lips,
fluttering eyelids, and heaving breast, bespoke unutterable suffering.
One must have actually witnessed such sights to realise the enormity of
human agony, grasp the torment that a stupid bit of flying steel can
inflict upon a splendid human frame--so well, so happy, so full of hope
but a second since. Oh, the pity of it all!
"Who is it?" the men whisper.
"Belongs to the 170th. They replaced us. He was caught in the _Boyau
des Anglais_."
"That's a wicked spot, that is!"
"Is he one of ours?" questioned a man from an upper window, stopping an
instant in the act of polishing his gun.
"No," answers some one.
The enquirer recommenced his work, and with it the refrain of his song,
just where he had left off.
"_Sur les bords de la Riviera_," sang he blithely.
Little groups formed along the wayside. Seated on the straw they
finished their afternoon meal, touching mugs, and joking together.
Near them the artillerymen greased and verified their axles; others
brushed and curried the horses. In one spot a hair dresser had set up
his tonsorial parlor in the open, and his customers formed in line
awaiting their turns.
Further on the _permissionaires_ blacked their boots and furbished
their raiment, making ready to leave for home. Swarms of humming birds
and bees clustered about a honeysuckle vine which clung to the
fragments of a fence near by, and whose fragrance saturated the air.
The friend, whose regiment number we had recognised, and stopped to
see, came up from behind and touched me on the shoulder.
"Well, of all things! What on earth are you doing here?"
We explained our mission, and then inquired about mutual acquaintances.
"Pistre? Why he's with the munitions in the 12xth. We'll go over and
see him. It's not far. But hold on a minute, isn't Lorrain a friend
of yours?"
We acquiesced.
"Well, his son's my lieutenant. I'll go and get him. He'd be too
sorry to miss you."
He disappeared and a few moments later returned followed by his
superior, a handsome little nineteen year old officer, who came running
up, his pipe in his mouth, his drinking cup still in his hand. The lad
blushed scarlet on seeing us, for he doubtless recalled, as did I, the
times not long gone by, when I used to meet him at a music teacher's,
his long curls hanging over his wide sailor collar.
The idea that this mere infant should have command over such a man as
our friend Nourrigat, double his age, and whose life of work and
struggle had been a marvel to us all, somewhat shocked me.
I think the little chap felt it, for he soon left us, pleading that he
must be present at a conference of officers.
"A brave fellow and a real man," commented Nourrigat, as the boy moved
away. "His whole company has absolute confidence in him. You can't
imagine the calm and prestige that kid possesses in the face of danger.
He's the real type of leader, he is! And let me tell you, he's pretty
hard put sometimes."
And then in a burst of genuine enthusiasm, he continued:
"It's wonderful to be under twenty, with a smart little figure, a
winsome smile, and a gold stripe on your sleeve. The women willingly
compare you to the Queen's pages, or Napoleon's handsome hussars. That
may be all very well in a salon, or in the drawings you see in 'La Vie
Parisienne,' but it takes something more than that to be a true
officer. He's got to know the ropes at playing miner, bombarder,
artilleryman, engineer, optician, accountant, caterer, undertaker,
hygienist, carpenter, mason--I can't tell you what all. And in each
particular job he's got to bear the terrible responsibility of human
lives; maintain the discipline and the moral standard, assure the
cohesion of his section. Moreover, he's called upon to receive orders
with calm and reserve under the most difficult and trying
circumstances, must grasp them with lightning speed and execute them
according to rules and tactics. A moment of hesitancy or
forgetfulness, and he is lost. The men will no longer follow him. I
tell you it isn't everybody that's born to be a leader!"
"But, was he educated for the career?" we questioned.
"I don't think so. I imagine he's just waiting for the end of the war
to continue his musical studies--that is if he comes out alive."
"And you?"
"I? Why I've no particular ambition. I suppose I could have gone into
the Camouflage Corps if I'd taken the trouble to ask. But what's the
use of trying to shape your own destiny?"
"You've gotten used to this life?"
"Not in the least. I abominate and adore it all in the same breath.
Or, to be more explicit, I admire the men and abhor the military
pictures, the thrilling and sentimental ideas of the warrior with which
the civilian head is so generously crammed. I love military servitude,
and the humble life of the men in the ranks, but I have a genuine
horror of heroes and their sublimity.
"Just look over there," he went on, waving his hand towards a long line
of seated _poilus_ who were peacefully enjoying their pipes, while
wistfully watching the smoke curl upward. "Just look at them, aren't
they splendid? Why they've got faces like the 'Drinkers' in the
Velasquez picture. See that little fellow rolling his cigarette?
Isn't he the image of the Bacchus who forms the centre of the painting?
That's Brunot, and he's thinking about all the god-mothers whose
letters swell out his pockets. He can't make up his mind whether he
prefers the one who lives in Marseilles and who sent him candied
cherries and her photograph; or the one from Laval who keeps him well
supplied with devilled ham which he so relishes. The two men beside
him are Lemire and Lechaptois--both peasants. When they think, it's
only of their farms and their wives. That other little thin chap is a
Parisian bookkeeper. I'd like to bet that he's thinking of his wife,
and only of her. He's wondering if she's faithful to him. It's almost
become an obsession. I've never known such jealousy, it's fairly
killing him.
"That man Ballot, just beyond"--and our friend motioned up the
line--"that man Ballot would give anything to be home behind his
watch-maker's stand. In a moment or so he'll lean over and begin a
conversation with his neighbour Thevenet. They've only one topic, and
it's been the same for two years. It's angling. They haven't yet
exhausted it.
"All of them at bottom are heartily wishing it were over; they've had
enough of it. But they're good soldiers, just as before the war they
were good artisans. The _métier_ is sacred--as are the Family and
Duty. 'The Nation, Country, Honour' are big words for which they have
a certain repugnance.
"'That's all rigmarole that somebody hands you when you've won the
Wooden Cross and a little garden growing over your tummy,' is the way
they put it in their argot. 'The Marseillaise, the Chant du Depart are
all right for the youngsters, and the reviews--and let me tell you, the
reviews take a lot of furbishing and make a lot of dust. That's all
they really amount to.'
"When they sing, it's eternally 'The Mountaineers' who, as you know,
are always 'there,' 'Sous les Ponts de Paris,' 'Madelon' and other
sentimental compositions, and if by accident, in your desire to please,
you were prone to compare them to the heroes of Homer, it's more than
likely your pains would be rewarded by the first missile on which they
could lay their hands and launch in your direction. They will not
tolerate mockery.
"No"--he went on, filling his pipe, and enunciating between each puff.
"No, they are neither supermen nor heroes; no more than they are
drunkards or foul mouthed blackguards. No, they are better than all
that--they are men, real men, who do everything they do well; be it
repairing a watch, cabinet-making, adding up long columns of figures or
peeling potatoes, mounting guard, or going over the top! They do the
big things as though they were small, the small things as though they
were big!
"Two days ago the captain sent for two men who had been on patrol duty
together. He had but one decoration to bestow and both chaps were in
hot discussion as to who should _not_ be cited for bravery.
"'Now, boys, enough of this,' said the captain. 'Who was leading, and
who first cut the German barbed wire?'
"'Dubois.'
"'Well then, Dubois, what's all this nonsense? The cross is yours.'
"'No, sir, if you please, that would be idiotic! I'm a foundling,
haven't any family. What's a war cross more or less to me? Now Paul
here keeps a café; just think of the pleasure it will give his
clientèle to see him come back decorated.'
"The captain who knows his men, understood Dubois' sincerity, and so
Paul got the medal.
"I believe it was Peguy who said that 'Joan of Arc' has the same
superiority over other saints, as the man who does his military service
has over those who are exempt.' But it's only the soldiers who really
understand that, and when they say _On les aura_, it means something
more from their lips, than when uttered by a lady over her tea-cups, or
a reporter in his newspaper."
During this involuntary monologue we had strolled along the road which
Nourrigat had originally indicated as the direction of our friend
Pistre. Presently he led us into the church, a humble little village
sanctuary. A shell had carried away half the apse, and sadly damaged
the altar. The belfry had been demolished and the old bronze bell
split into four pieces had been carefully fitted together by some
loving hand, and stood just inside the doorway.
St. Anthony of Padua had been beheaded, and of St. Roch there remained
but one foot and half his dog. Yet, a delightful sensation of peace
and piety reigned everywhere. From the confessional rose the murmur of
voices, and the improvised altar was literally buried beneath garlands
of roses.
In what had once been a chapel, a soldier now sat writing. His note
books were spread before him on a table, a telephone was at his elbow.
Chalk letters on a piece of broken slate indicate that this is the
"_Bureau de la 22e_."
An old bent and withered woman, leaning on a cane, issued from this
office-chapel as we approached.
"Why that's mother Tesson," exclaimed Nourrigat. "Good evening,
mother; how's your man to-day?"
"Better, sir. Much better, thank you. They've taken very good care of
him at your hospital."
The old couple had absolutely refused to evacuate their house. The
Sous-Prefet, the Prefet, all the authorities had come and insisted, but
to no avail.
"We've lost everything," she would explain. "Our three cows, our
chickens, our pigs. Kill us if you like, but don't force us to leave
home. We worked too hard to earn it!"
And so they had hung on as an oyster clings to its rock. One shell had
split their house in twain, another had flattened out the hayloft. The
old woman lay on her bed crippled with rheumatism, her husband a victim
of gall stones. Their situation was truly most distressing.
But there were the soldiers. Not any special company or
individual--but the soldiers, the big anonymous mass--who took them in
charge and passed them on from one to another.
"We leave father and mother Tesson to your care," was all they said to
the new comers as they departed. But that was sufficient, and so the
old couple were nursed, clothed and fed by those whom one would suppose
had other occupations than looking after the destitute.
[Illustration: A VILLAGE ON THE FRONT]
Three times the house was brought to earth. Three times they rebuilt
it. The last time they even put in a stove so that the old woman would
not have to bend over to reach her hearth. New beds were made and
installed, the garden dug and planted. The old man was operated upon
at the Division Hospital, and when he became convalescent they shared
the contents of their home packages with him.
Who were they? This one or that one? Mother Tesson would most surely
have been at a loss to name the lad who returned from his furlough
bringing two hens and a rooster to start her barnyard. She vaguely
remembered that he was from the south, on account of his accent, and
that he must have travelled across all France with his cage of chickens
in his hand.
They entered her home, smoked a pipe by her fireside, helped her to
wash the dishes or shell peas; talked a moment with her old man and
left, saying _au revoir_.
Another would come back greeting her with a cordial "_Bonjour, mère
Tesson_."