Rockefella. I ain’t spent more’n a buck since we been over, and then
it was just to be spendin’ it, not because they was anything to buy.
I seen a fella the other day light a cigarette with one o’ these here
dirty twenty-franc notes. He was sick o’ carrying it round. And they
was another fella went up to one o’ these here village belles and
slipped her a hundred francs. He never seen her before, and he won’t
never see her again. He just says ‘Souvenir’ and let it go at that.”
“Did she take it?”
“Oh, I guess not! She’s to gay Paree by this time already.”
“She won’t burn up that town with a hundred francs.”
“No, but all these girls don’t think o’ nothin’ but gettin’ there. From
what I seen of it, I’d just as soon be in Akron.”
“Oh, I’d hardly say that!”
“Talk about spendin’ money! They was a poor fella here last week that
got rid of a lot of it. He bought himself a bottle o’ champagne wine.
I don’t think he’d tasted it before, but it’s cheap over here. So he
got a hold o’ this bottle and poured it into him like it was excelsior
water, and it acted on him like it was laughin’ gas. He went up
alongside the officers’ billet and sang ’em a vocal solo. The captain
heard him--you could of heard him in San Francisco--and the captain
come out and invited him in. And when he got him in there he says:
‘So-and-So, how much did this little bun cost you?’ So the fella told
him a buck and a half. So the captain says: ‘You’ve underestimated the
amount by about seventy bucks. You’ll get your next pay the last day of
October.’”
I asked my new friend how he liked his billet.
“Great!” he said. “I and a couple other fellas has a room next to a
pig on one side and a flock o’ chickens on the other. We never get
lonesome, and it makes it nice and handy when we want some ham and
eggs. I know one fella that rooms next to a settlement o’ rats. Night
times he sets his flashlight so’s it throws a narrow path o’ light
acrost the floor, then he puts a little piece o’ meat in the path and
stands over it with a bayonet. When Mr. Rat gets there the fella comes
down whang with the bayonet and fastens him to the floor. It’s good
target practise, and he’d ought to be sure fire by the time it’s Huns
instead o’ rats.”
“Maybe,” said I, “the Huns would know better than to come out in the
light.”
“They’d go anywheres for a piece o’ meat,” said the private.
He had to depart and report for muster. We took another road home, a
road frequented by sheep and railroad crossings, both of which slow you
up considerably.
In France the gates--strong iron ones--at grade crossings are kept
closed except when some one wants to cross the tracks. The some one
makes known his desire by tooting his horn or shouting, and the
gatekeeper--usually an old lady with the pipe-smoking habit--comes out
of her shack and opens the gates, expending anywhere from ten minutes
to half an hour on the task. The salary attached to the position is
the same as that of a French private: ten centimes a day, which is two
cents in regular money. I presume the gatekeepers have a hot time in
the old town on pay night.
As for the sheep, when you come up behind them you might as well resign
yourself to staying behind them till they reach the village for which
they are headed. They won’t get out of the way of their own accord, and
neither the dog nor the aged shepherd will make any effort to sidetrack
them.
Having led them into the village, the shepherd proceeds to deliver
them to their respective owners. He stops in front of a house, plays
a certain tune on his horn, and the sheep or sheeps belonging to that
house step out of ranks and sheepishly retire for the night, or perhaps
sit up a while in the parlor and talk war with the family.
There must be a lot of intermarrying among the sheeps of one village.
A great many of those in the flock we saw looked enough alike to be
cousins or something.
Somebody suggested a poker game for this evening’s entertainment, but I
got all I wanted of that great sport coming across the bounding blue.
It has rained only an hour in two days, and the boys say we’ll get it
good to-morrow.
_Saturday, September 1. In an American Camp._
As exclusively predicted by everybody, it was pouring when we arose
this morning, but rain doesn’t keep you indoors in France. If it did,
you would live indoors.
We splashed the thirty miles to the other end of the camp and inflicted
ourselves on a major of marines. He seemed deliberately unfriendly
at first, but it was only his manner. After five minutes of awkward
monosyllabic dialogue he gave us the usual refreshments and took us out
to see the town, the name of which should be Mud if it isn’t.
“This is a grand climate,” he said. “They must have had conscription to
get people to live here.”
He took us to the camp kitchen, of which he was evidently and justly
proud. It was a model of convenience and cleanliness. He spoke to the
cook.
“Are you very busy?” he asked.
“No, sir,” was the reply.
“Then I’d shave if I were you,” said the major.
“Daily shaving,” he told us when we got outside, “ought to be
compulsory in our army as it is in the British. When a man hasn’t
shaved he isn’t at his best, physically, morally, or mentally. When he
has he’s got more confidence in himself; his morale is better. Shaving
has a psychological effect, and I try to impress my men with the
importance of it. They say it’s a difficult operation here, but I guess
if the Tommies can do it in the trenches, we can in these billets.”
We remarked on the increasing popularity of mustaches among the men.
“I don’t object to them,” said the major. “Neither do I see any sense
to them. To my mind they’re in a class with monocles or an appendix.
But so long as the men keep their cheeks and chins smooth, they’re at
liberty to wear as much of a misplaced eyebrow as they can coax out.”
The major showed us his hospital and his dentist shop and marched us
up a steep hill, where, in the rain, we saw a great many interesting
things and promised not to write about them.
After lunch we decided it would be patriotic to go home and remove our
wet clothes. In my case, this meant spending the rest of the day in my
room, and that’s where I am.
_Sunday, September 2. Paris._
The driver assigned to take me to the train, which left from the next
village this morning, lost his way, and we reached the station just as
the engine was sounding the Galli-Curci note that means All Aboard.
There was no time to buy a ticket, and you can’t pay a cash fare on
a train in France. But the conductor, or whatever you call him here,
said I could get a ticket at the destination, Paris; in fact, I must
get a ticket or spend the rest of my unnatural life wandering about the
station.
I found a seat in a compartment in which were a young American officer,
beginning his forty-eight hours’ leave, and a young French lady who
looked as if she had been in Paris before. The young officer and I
broke into conversation at once. The young lady didn’t join in till we
had gone nearly twenty kilomet’s.
Captain Jones, which isn’t his name, called attention to the signs on
the window warning MM. Les Voyageurs to keep their anatomies indoors.
The signs were in three languages. “Ne pas Pencher au Dehors,” said the
French. The English was “Danger to Lean Outside.” And the Wop: “Non
Sporgere”--very brief. It was evident that a fourth variation of the
warning had been torn off, and it didn’t require a William Burns to
figure out in what language it had been written.
“If there were a boche on this train,” said Captain Jones, “he could
lean his head off without hurting any one’s feelings.”
“Languages are funny,” continued the captain sagely. “The French
usually need more words than we do to express the same thought. I
believe that explains why they talk so fast--they’ve got so much more
to say.”
I inquired whether he knew French.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “I’ve been over here so long that I can even tell
the money apart.”
The dining-car conductor came in to ask whether we wanted the first
or second “série” luncheon. You must reserve your seat at table on
trains here or you can’t eat. We decided on the second, and so did
our charming compartment mate. Captain Jones, supposing she could not
understand English, said: “Shall you take her to lunch or shall I?”
I was about to be magnanimous when she remarked, with a scornful glance
at the captain: “I shall myself take me to lunch if monsieur has no
objection.”
The cap was temporarily groggy, but showed wonderful recuperative
powers and in five minutes convinced her that he would toss himself
into the Seine if she refused to eat with us. She accepted, after some
stalling that convinced me she had been cordially inclined all the
while.
General polite conversation ensued, and soon came the inevitable French
question: How many American soldiers were there in France? I have heard
it asked a million times, and I have heard a million different answers.
The captain gave the truthful reply: “I don’t know.”
[Illustration: “I shall myself take me to lunch if monsieur has no
objections”]
“This war,” he said, “should be called the War of Rumors. The war will
be over by Christmas. The war won’t be over for ten years. The boche
is starving. The Allies are getting fat. The boche has plenty to eat.
The Allies are dying of hunger. Our last transport fleet sank five
subs. Our last transport fleet was sunk by a whole flotilla of subs.
Montenegro’s going to make a separate peace with Bosnia. There is talk
of peace negotiations between Hungary and Indiana. Ireland, Brazil and
Oklahoma are going to challenge the world. They’re going to move the
entire war to the Balkans and charge admission. The Kaiser’s dying of
whooping cough. You can learn anything you want to or don’t want to
know. Why”--this to me--“don’t you fellas print the truth?”
“And where,” I asked him, “would you advise us to go and get it?”
“The same place I got it,” said the captain.
“And what is it?”
“I don’t know.”
We adjourned to the diner. A sign there said: “Non Fumeurs.” The
captain pointed to it.
“That’s brief enough,” he said. “That’s once when the French is
concise. But you ought to see the Chinese for that. I was in a town
near the British front recently where some Chinese laborers are
encamped. In the station waiting-room, it says: ‘No Smoking’ in French,
English, Russian and Italian. The Russian is something like ‘Do notski
smokevitch,’ and the Italian is ‘Non Smokore’. Recently they have added
a Chinese version, and it’s longer than the Bible. A moderate smoker
could disobey the rules forty times before he got through the first
chapter and found out what they were driving at.”
Be that as it may, I have observed that everybody in France smokes
whenever and wherever he or she desires, regardless of signs. We did
now, and so did our guest, while waiting for the first course, which
was black bread baked in a brickyard.
“I would love to go to America,” said mademoiselle.
“You wouldn’t care for it,” replied the captain promptly. “It’s too
wild.”
“How is it wild?”
“Every way: manners, habits, morals. The majority of the people, of
course, are Indians, and you just can’t make them behave.”
She asked whether either of us had ever been in New York. The captain
said he’d passed through there once on the way to Coney Island. She
wanted to know if New York was bigger than Paris. “It’s bigger than
France,” said Captain Jones.
Monsieur was trying to make a game of her.
“Well, anyway,” said the captain, “you could lose France in Texas.”
What was Texas?
“Texas,” said the captain, “is the place they send soldiers when
they’ve been bad. It’s way out west, near Chicago.”
The lady had heard of Chicago.
“This gentleman works there,” said the captain. “He’s part Indian, but
he was educated at Carlisle and is somewhat civilized. He gets wild
only on occasions.”
The lady regarded me rather scaredly.
“He lives on the plains outside the city,” continued the captain, “and
rides to his work and back on a zebra. Practically all the suburban
savages have zebras, and the Chicago traffic police have a fierce time
handling them during their owners’ working hours. They run wild around
the streets and in the department stores, and snap at women, especially
brunettes.”
We had attained the potato course. The French positively will not serve
potatoes as other than a separate course. I was about to help myself to
a generous portion when the captain cried: “Here! Better leave those
things alone. You know what they do to you.”
I told him I didn’t believe two or three would hurt, and proceeded to
take three.
“When a half Indian eats potatoes,” said the captain, “he usually
forgets himself and runs amuck.”
Our guest probably didn’t know what a muck was, but it had an
unpleasant sound, and the look she gave me was neither friendly nor
trusting.
“The greatest difference between France and America,” continued
Captain Jones, “is in the people. In America a man ordinarily takes
the initiative in striking up an acquaintance with a woman. He has to
speak to her before she’ll speak to him. This would never do in France,
where the men are too shy. Then there’s a difference in the way men
treat their wives and horses. Americans use whips instead of clubs.
And Americans have funny ideas about their homes. Private bedrooms
and playrooms are provided for their pets--zebras, lizards and wild
cats--and the little fellows are given to understand that they must
remain in them and not run all over the house, like one of your cows.”
He paused to ask me how the potatoes were acting. I said it was too
soon to tell, but I felt a little dizzy in the head. He suggested it
were better to go back to our compartment, where there were less things
to throw in the event of my reaching the throwing stage.
“On the other hand,” I said, “if I am deprived of knives, forks and
plates, I will pick on human beings, and I usually aim out the windows.”
But he said he was sick of the atmosphere in the diner. We asked for
l’addition and argued over who should pay it. I won, and when he had
been given his change we returned to our own car, where mademoiselle
demonstrated her fear of my expected outbreak by going to sleep.
We turned our attention to the scenery, the most striking feature of
which was the abundance of boche prisoners at work in the fields.
“Lucky stiffs!” said the captain. “The war is over for them if they
can just manage not to escape, and I guess there’s no difficulty about
that. Better food than the soldiers, a soft job, and a bed to sleep
in. And wages besides. Every private in the Fritz army would surrender
if the officers hadn’t given them a lot of bunk about the way German
prisoners are treated. They make them believe we cut off their feet and
ears and give them one peanut and a glass of water every two weeks.”
Paris hove into view, and we quarreled about the girl. The fair thing,
we decided, would be to turn over her and her baggage to a porter and
wish her many happy returns of the day. We were spared this painful
duty, however, for when she awoke she treated both of us as strangers.
And the gentleman who attended to her baggage was not a porter, but a
French aviator, waiting on the station platform for that very purpose.
“She’ll tell him,” guessed the captain, “that an American soldier and
half Indian tried to flirt with her on the train, but she froze them
out.”
Captain Jones stuck with me till my exit ticket was procured, a chore
that ate up over an hour. Then we climbed into a dreadnought and came
to this hotel, where I sat right down and versified as follows:
TO AN AMERICAN SOLDIER
_If you don’t like the nickname Sammy,
If it’s not all a nickname should be,
You can pick out Pat or Mike,
Whatever name you like--
It won’t make no difference to me.
Want a Thomas or Harry or Dick name?
Dost prefer to be called Joe or Lou?
You’ve a right to your choice of a nickname;
Oh, Mr. Yank, it’s up to you._
V
MY ADVENTURES AT THE BRITISH FRONT
_Monday, September 3. Paris._
In this morning’s mail was a letter from Somewhere in London, replying
favorably to my request to go to the British front. I was directed to
take the letter to the assistant provost marshal, who would slip me a
pass and inform me as to the details of the trip.
At the A. P. M.’s I was given the pass and with it “an undertaking to
be signed by all intending visitors to the front.” There are ten rules
in the undertaking, and some of them are going to be hard to obey. For
example:
“I understand that it is impossible to arrange for me to see relatives
serving with the fighting forces.”
“I will not visit the enemy front during the present war.”
But No. 6 is the tough one:
“In no circumstances will I deliver a political or electioneering
speech to troops.”
I must pray for strength to resist natural impulses along this line.
Wednesday morning, said the A. P. M., would be our starting time. And
he told us when and where to take the train--“us” because I am to be
accompanied by a regular correspondent, one who carries a cane and
everything.
Mr. Gibbons, the regular correspondent, informs me I must wear a
uniform, and to-morrow morning I am to try on his extra one, which he
has kindly offered.
Another chore scheduled for to-morrow is the squaring of myself with
the boss of the French Maison de la Presse, who invited me to visit the
devastated territory Thursday and Friday. The invitation was accepted,
but the British and French dates conflict, and I would rather see one
real, live front than any number of broken-down barns and boched trees.
_Tuesday, September 4. Paris._
I reported, after the French idea of breakfast, at the Maison de la
Presse. This is situate on the fourth floor of a building equipped with
an elevator that proves the fallacy of the proverb “What goes up must
come down.” You can dimly see it at the top of the shaft, and no amount
of button pushing or rope pulling budges it.
During the long climb I rehearsed the speech of apology and condolence
framed last night, and wondered whether monsieur would be game and try
to smile or break down completely or fly into a rage. He was game, and
he not only tried to smile, but succeeded. And his smile was in perfect
simulation of relief. These French are wonderful actors.
I returned thence to Mr. Gibbons’ room for my fitting. His extra
uniform consisted of a British officer’s coat and riding breeches,
puttees and shoes. Cap and khaki shirt I had to go out and purchase.
The store I first selected was a gyp joint and wanted twenty-seven
francs for a cap. I went to another store and got exactly the same
thing for twenty-six. A careful shopper can save a lot of money in
Paris.
Provided with cap and shirt, the latter costing a franc less than the
former, I went to a secluded spot and tried on the outfit, Mr. Gibbons
assisting. We managed the puttees in thirty-five minutes. It is said
that a man working alone can don them in an hour, provided he is
experienced.
“You look,” Mr. Gibbons remarked when I was fully dressed, “as if you
had been poured into it.”
But I felt as if I hadn’t said “when” quite soon enough. Mr. Gibbons
and I differ in two important particulars--knee joints--and though I
tried to seem perfectly comfortable, my knees were fairly groaning to
be free of the breeches and out in the open fields.
“Wear it the rest of the day and get used to it,” advised Mr. Gibbons.
“No,” I said. “I don’t want to rumple it all up. I want to keep it neat
for to-morrow.” And against his protest I tore myself out and resumed
my humble Chicago garb.
It’s no wonder regular correspondents and British officers are obliged
to wear canes. The wonder is that they don’t use crutches.
We leave at nine to-morrow morning. This means that myself and puttees
will have to get up at four.
_Wednesday, September 5. With the British._
The major has a very good sense of the fitness of things. The room
where I’m writing, by candlelight, is the best guest room in our
château and was once occupied by the queen.
The rules of the household call for the dousing of down-stairs glims at
eleven o’clock. After that you may either remain down there in total
darkness or come up here and bask in the brilliant rays of a candle.
You should, I presume, be sleepy enough to go right to bed, but you’re
afraid you might forget something if you put off the day’s record till
to-morrow.
I overslept myself, as they say, and had to get Mr. Gibbons to help
with the puttees. The lower part of the breeches, I found, could be
loosened just enough to make the knee area inhabitable.
[Illustration: “You look as if you had been poured into it”]
We skipped breakfast and reached the station in a taxi without hitting
anything. It was fifteen minutes before train time, but there wasn’t a
vacant seat in the train. A few of the seats were occupied by poilus,
and the rest by poilus’ parcels and newspapers. A Frenchman always gets
to a nine o’clock train by seven-thirty. He picks one seat for himself
and one or two on each side of him for his impedimenta. This usually
insures him privacy and plenty of room, for it is considered an overt
act even to pick up a magazine and sit in its place. Mr. Gibbons and I
walked from one end of the train to the other and half-way back again
without any one’s taking a hint. We climbed into a carriage just as she
started to move. There were six seats and three occupants. We inquired
whether all the seats were reserved, and were given to understand that
they were, the owners of three having gone to a mythical dining-car.
We went into the aisle and found standing room among the Australians
and Canadians returning from their leave. One of the former, a young,
red-headed, scrappy-looking captain, smiled sympathetically and broke
open a conversation. I was glad of it, for it gave me an opportunity
of further study of the language. I am a glutton for languages, and
the whole day has been a feast. We have listened to six different
kinds--Australian, Canadian, British, French, Chinese and Harvard. I
have acquired an almost perfect understanding of British, Australian
and Canadian, which are somewhat similar, and of Harvard, which I
studied a little back home. French and Chinese I find more difficult,
and I doubt that any one could master either inside of a month or so.
The red-headed captain remarked on the crowded condition of the trine.
That is Australian as well as British for train. The Canadian is like
our word, and the French is spelled the same, but is pronounced as if
a goat were saying it. Lack of space prevents the publication of the
Chinese term.
One of the captain’s best pals, he told us, had just been severely
wounded. He was a gime one, though even smaller than the captain. The
captain recalled one night when he, the pal, took prisoner a boche
lieutenant who stood over six feet. Fritz was asked whether he spoke
English. He shook his head. He was asked whether he spoke French.
He lost his temper and, in English, called the entire continent of
Australia a bad name. The captain’s little pal then marched him off
to the proper authority, to be questioned in English. On the way the
captain’s little pal made him take off his helmet and give it to him.
This was as punishment for what Fritz had said about Australia.
Before the proper authority Fritz was as sweet-tempered as a bloody
bear. This puzzled the proper authority, for making a boche prisoner is
doing him a big favor.
“What iles you?” asked the authority when Fritz had refused to reply
to any of a dozen questions. “You ine’t the first bloody boche officer
we’ve tiken.”
Then Fritz bared his grievance. He didn’t mind, he said, being a
prisoner. The size of his captor was the thing that galled. “And for
Gott’s sake,” he added, “make him give back my helmet.”
The proper authority turned to the captain’s little pal. “He’s your
prisoner,” he said. “What do you want to do with the helmet?”
“Keep it, sir,” said the captain’s little pal.
And it will be used back in Australia some day to illustrate the story,
which by that time will doubtless have more trimmings.
“But how about Fritz?” I asked. “When he gets home and tells the same
story, he’ll have nothing with which to prove it.”
“He ine’t agoin’ to tell the sime story.”
We were welcomed at our destination by a captain, another regular
correspondent, and two good English cars. The captain said he was
expecting another guest on this train, a Harvard professor on research
work bent.
“I have no idea what he looks like,” said the captain.
“I have,” said Mr. Gibbons and I in concert, but it went over the top.