——————————————————
Stray Days
————
There were days of travel from one post of duty to another, and days of
recreation that took us away from the camp for a little but seldom away
from the soldiers themselves. Army restrictions were as numerous and as
intricate as the barbed wire entanglement of the front. But in spite of
limitations, and in some instances because of them, we had many novel
and interesting experiences in what we called Stray Days.
Waiting, as simple as it seems, could sometimes be one of the most
trying ordeals of a soldier’s life. This was true of those who reached
France in the heat of the conflict to become in some small way a part
of it. Arriving in Paris and finding it sorely pressed by the foe, one
immediately became a part of the anxious throng within its gates, with
scant desire for sight-seeing or visits to places of interest during
those tense days. This was especially true if one had known that city
when it was all life and light, before the pall of suffering and dread
had fallen over it.
Now one preferred to sit in the Garden of the Tuilleries, if the bomb
and shell of the enemy permitted it. Looking out upon the huge dark
form of the Louvre or letting the eyes wander past the remains of the
palace to the Place de la Concorde, it would be most natural that the
thoughts or conversation would turn to the long struggle of France
for the attainment of an ideal democracy. Usually the conversation
would be with a wounded soldier or sad old civilian of the French who
would add much to our knowledge of his people and their history. Or in
those same oppressive days, we would ride past the palatial residences
with their fast-closed windows, on the Champs Elysées to the Bois de
Boulogne. Sitting there with face toward Napoleon’s Arc de Triomphe,
one would come to understand that kingdoms and principalities, builded
by selfishness and tyranny, survive but a day. Through the gruesome
crucible of the Bastille and guillotine, France had won the democracy
that she was now battling to preserve. The grim insistence of this
determination could be seen in the wounded men that were ever near us.
But when the French had finally won, life and light once again filled
Paris, and with it the urge and joy of long days of sight-seeing for
the Americans. Soldiers “on three days’ leave” wanted to see luxurious
Versailles whatever else was omitted. Others preferred Fontainebleau
with its stately palace, or St. Denis with its hundreds of royal tombs.
All wanted to go to the tombs of Lafayette and Napoleon. One would find
the Chapel of the Invalides crowded with soldiers looking down upon the
great sarcophagus of the Emperor, while a Y man related the history.
Now and then as we listened, we felt that the shade of the great
warrior might be protesting all unseen against some of these original
expositions of his life.
Aside from the best-known places of interest, one liked to go out
to Père la Chaise with a group of men and show them its wonderful
beauty, even though a cemetery—show them the graves of great scholars
and artists of France, even those of its great lovers like Héloise
and Abelard. Often the day would be closed with a restful ride on
the Seine, where, somehow, one came into more intimate touch with
historical Paris and a keener understanding of it than from any other
point. The long dark form of the Louvre; the beautiful Notre Dame with
the nearby Hotel de Ville, and the gold-domed Hotel des Invalides are
among the dominating views of the famous little Seine, and in them is
summed up much of the death and resurrection of a nation. But outside
of Paris the footsteps of the world seemed to turn toward Rheims.
Rheims with its far-famed cathedral, all war-despoiled, became a place
of pilgrimage not only for the devoted French, but for the thousands
of foreigners on their soil. Towering above the ruined city, the
cathedral, so rich in artistic value and historical associations,
stands all shattered and torn. Thirty years to restore, they told us
there. Somehow as we looked upon it, standing proudly erect in spite
of its ghastly wounds and piles of wreckage heaped high about it, it
seemed strongly emblematic of its wonderful people, who even then had
begun the herculean task of restoring their villages and towns. Aside
from walking through the ruins to reach the cathedral and our ride to
the fort and battlefield with its never-ending trenches, we have two
distinct memories of our visit to Rheims. First, it was a wonderful
way to celebrate the birthday of one of us; and second, a secret
service man, posing as a Frenchman, completely won our confidence. Once
before in Paris when one of our number had a dinner in honor of the
Liberian delegates to the Peace Conference, we found close at our side
an American in faultless evening dress. He quite amused us by the way
he pretended to be engrossed in his dinner and book, while he really
gave himself to listening. A little diplomacy, and his calling was
discovered. But at Rheims it was all different. Sprawled on a bench in
real French attire with wine bottle in hand, this man spoke perfect
French. It was the hottest day we had ever experienced in France, so he
opened the conversation with questions about the weather in different
sections of the United States, thus locating us. Then came other
questions about colored people, their relations and feelings to their
country. After a while our little party went to purchase postcards, and
when we returned our erstwhile Frenchman had become an unmistakable
American. He laughingly revealed his identity. Now, perhaps it was the
environment, but, at any rate, we had all stood the test that day of
being rather good Americans; even the “buck” private who accompanied
us seemed to have forgotten the many grievances of his kind and spoke
with, a kind of glow upon his face of his home in Baltimore. Our secret
service man was well pleased with our Americanism, but we felt rather
chagrined that we had missed so splendid an opportunity to share with
him certain truths about colored folk at home that he probably had not
learned.
Seeing Rheims, one also wished to see the city so close by and so
closely linked to it for all the war. But we had seen Chateau Thierry
first. One Saturday afternoon the two writers were started from Verdun
with “movement orders” for Paris. But the spirit of adventure was very
strong in them. They were in a region that within a year had changed
the map of the world and added miraculous pages to history. They were
in a sector where their own men, side by side with the French, had
fought bravely to victory, so that to see it only from the fast moving
train was hardly possible. At Chalons they descended, and so full of
their adventure were they that the difficulty of securing suitable
lodgings in that city, overcrowded with American officers and soldiers,
did not disturb them. Two Frenchmen carrying their baggage, contentedly
jogged along with them, now and then offering a suggestion. The old
cathedral, one of the finest in France and the old buildings of the
city, were well worth the time spent in hunting a place to sleep.
Next morning they hurried over to the ruined city of Chateau Thierry
with its little Marne that had twice held the world in breathless
anxiety. How glad they were to join there two other Y women and a man
who were also out for a day of recreation! Already they had found the
headquarters’ company of the “813th,” and the colonel of that regiment
granted the use of two camions or wagonettes in which they all raced to
Belleau Woods, where Messrs. Kindal and Parks, with Miss Thomas and
Mrs. Williamson were faithfully serving those companies of the “813th”
who were building the cemetery there and of whom we have spoken. There,
too, we found Dr. Wilberforce Williams helping the regular staff. Never
was a dinner served in the properly appointed way eaten more joyously
than the one to which those ten secretaries sat down that Sunday
in Belleau Woods. It had been gathered from devious sources by the
soldiers of the regiment and brought to the Y hut, so that the courses
would not have pleased an epicurean taste. However, there were few
fragments left from that meal.
We have told about the soldiers at Chateau Thierry and
Fere-en-Tardenois, but we have not told about our race from one place
to the other, about thirty miles, with stops here and there to find our
way, pick up hats and caps blown away, and to repair the camions.
That night we slept at Epernay and that is still another story. There,
too, we found the city crowded by Americans. We thought we would sit
in the depot all night, but the sleeping crowd and steamy atmosphere
drove us forth into the clean night air. We were just endeavoring to
drive a bargain with the owner of a _voiture_ for its use as a sleeping
carriage, when a tiny French lady in voluminous black bombazine swept
us away to her small apartment with its big feather bed. The next day,
having satisfied for the time our desire for sight-seeing, we most
demurely handed in “movement orders” at the Paris office.
During the war Epernay, like Bar-le-Duc and Chalons, was always just
on the rim of that gulf of fire and smoke that swept Eastern France.
For the most part these cities escaped with only an ugly scar here and
there. Verdun saved them, for could the Crown Prince but have realized
his dream, they, too, would have been as Soissons, Rheims and Chateau
Thierry, mere heaps of ruins.
There were other trips over battlefields and through their tunnels that
most of those who went to France had the privilege of making. But it
was away from the beaten paths of travelers, and especially along the
west coast of France, that these Stray Days afforded us the greatest
pleasure. At St. Nazaire there were days when we would leave the noise
of the camp and wander down long shady roads, by high stone walls that
hid from view beautiful cottages and gardens, down steep inclines to
the sea, stepping from boulder to boulder till we would be far out.
Then we would rest with the breeze full of the salt of the sea blowing
about us. Sometimes we would talk of home and loved ones over there
in the west, sometimes of our work, but oftener we would be silent.
Looking up we might see a khaki-clad form high above that would come
down to us at a frightfully rapid pace. There were lovely moonlight
nights when we would stand by the sea-wall on the ocean boulevard and
watch the transports that so often filled the harbor, resting on the
glistening waves. But there were other nights when, clad in storm
raiment, we enjoyed equally as well seeing the great waves dash over
the wall and across the boulevard in turbulent anger.
Now and then there would be a whole day in which we could leave the
camp entirely. Then we could go to one of the many little seaside
resorts about us—Pornichet, for instance, with its great stretch of
white beach, quaint and quiet inns and tempting sea food. There one
would go to sleep with the roar of the waves in the ears and the salt
of the sea filling the atmosphere.
Now and then there would be need of supplies for our hut that the local
_magasins_ or shops could not supply, and it would afford a chance
for a shopping expedition to the quaint and historical old city of
Nantes. Once there we would spend most of the day in the crowded but
wonderfully attractive shops. Then we would seek for a _voiture_ with a
versatile and talkative owner who would show us the points of interest
in the old town that had known so much of persecution and despotism.
The river Loire, now filled with supplies for the army, was once filled
with barges in which hundreds of human souls were drowned. Nantes was
one of the important war bases, and was always crowded by Americans.
[Illustration: 1. Down by the Sea in France. 2. Devastated Rheims.
3. A Lighthouse off the Coast of Brittany. 4. The Druid Stones at
Carnac. 5. Chamonix. 6. An old gateway at Verdun. 7. Chateau Thierry.
8. Verdun. 9. Ancient Vannes.]
Another outing took us to Vannes on the Brittany coast, one of the
oldest towns of France. In Celtic times it was the capital of Venetis
and it takes the honor of giving Venice its name as well as colonizing
the Adriatic. Because its inhabitants resisted Cæsar with so much
vigor he said of them “they have bodies of iron and hearts of steel.”
Looking at the everyday life of those inhabitants of the Brittany
coast, one feels that time has brought few changes in conditions and
customs. The men driving their cows and sheep on market day, the women
and children riding in the carts or walking about the towns, all in the
native costume of their class, close the door on the present and, for a
time, make one a part of the past. Its old stone gateways and courts,
its old squares and old passages and more than all else, its old men
and women with their clattering wooden shoes, reveal how little the
outer world has penetrated to that ancient spot.
A half day only left for Vannes, and Carnac with its Druid Stones
almost thirty kilometres away! How was it to be done? We could not
miss seeing such a wonder. There was but one way, and well for us that
we did not know then all the army regulations or we would have missed
this place now engraven in our memory. But we did not know, so we
did the one thing possible, hired an automobile with chauffeur—both
French—and sped to Carnac. It is neither beautiful nor ugly, but it
is wonderful to see hundreds of gray stones rising skyward out of the
heather-covered fields. So regular the rows, so silent the surroundings
that one can almost believe the legend that makes them an army turned
to stone. There is much of tradition and history in all of this part of
Brittany.
Finnistere offered many advantages for outings with the great military
port of Brest as the starting point. To be in Brest in winter was
to feel the gloom and penetrating chill of England with the addition
during the war period of mud everywhere—earth ground into sinking mire
such as only vast and constant movements of men and machinery could
produce. It was the greatest port of the war, and men were always there
by the thousands. We climbed high above the city one winter evening
to visit the men at Camp Lincoln. As we spoke to them that night we
saw their faces out of the shadows made by the flickering candles.
Months later we spoke again, but in a well-lighted auditorium that had
been built for the men as the result of the persistent and successful
efforts of Secretary Cansler and his associates. Brest itself is
full of historic interest, beginning with the sombre Chateau and its
dungeons. But all around it are picturesque spots that lure one away
from the town in summer days. One Saturday four Y women and twelve
soldiers went by automobile north from Brest about twelve miles and
reached the remote village of St. Mathieu. They were then at the most
westerly point on the Continent, named by the natives “_Loc Mazi pen ar
Bed_,” or the cell of St. Mathieu at the end of the earth. But the most
important thing there is the ruins of a great monastery constructed
in the sixth century. It was bombarded first by the English and again
during the French Revolution. On all the Continent we had seen nothing
more picturesque than that great roofless monastery with its cloisters
and pretty Gothic windows. Covered with moss and ivy, it stood a
monument to the monastic order of its day. Nearby was a lighthouse and
all about us were mines, for the village held a strategic position
at the entrance to the English Channel. Beneath the sea-wall was a
submarine passage that had had its uses in other wars as well as in the
last one. From there we rode on to Conquet, a typical little fishing
village of the north coast. We ate dinner in a big old room jutting far
out on the sea, where the mist fell about us like rain.
There were days in Southern France where, in addition to the
interesting outings that were ever a part of the regular program, we
made other journeys. Some of our number traveled to beautiful Nice
on the Mediterranean, others went over those picturesque parts that
border Spain and some stood by Lake Geneva and spent a night at lovely
Chamonix under the shadow of Mont Blanc, marveling at its stupendous
beauty. There were vales and grottoes, lakes and mountains to which we
went, but there was always the soldier and one used these Stray Days
largely to gather new strength, new vigor for the important task back
in the Y hut. One might go many miles away from camp life, but the
vision of those thousands of virile lads with soul and body steeled for
the hour could not be lost and always sent one back to them with an
eager longing to serve better than before.
——————————————————
Let us hear the conclusion of the whole matter: Fear God, and keep
his commandments: for this is the whole duty of man.
_Ecclesiastes_ 12:13.
——————————————————
Afterthought
————
We verily believe that the scriptural passage used as an introduction
to these thoughts, is the rock upon which the colored people of America
must build the superstructure of their civilization for all their
future. It offers the only sure solution for their many difficulties,
although it must be accompanied by righteous and indignant protest
against injustice.
Some were not anxious for the colored soldier to take a part in the
great World War. They felt that it would be a needless sacrifice for
something that would bring no tangible results by way of alleviating
his present condition; others felt that if he offered his life upon the
altar for the principles of a new freedom, the remaining shackles that
have so long bound him would be wholly broken.
Neither were correct; for while the shackles have not been wholly
removed from his body there have been wonderful results accomplished
that have in some measure removed the fetters from his soul.
Approximately 150,000 soldiers, officers and men went to France to
represent the colored race in America. Many of them were brigaded with
the French, while other thousands had a contact and association with
this people which resulted in bringing for the entire number a broader
view of life; they caught the vision of a freedom that gave them new
hope and a new inspiration.
Some of them received the rudiments of an education through direct
instruction; a thing that would not have come to them in all the years
of a lifetime at home, while many hundreds had the opportunity of
traveling through the flowering fields of a country long famed for its
love of the beautiful, and seeing its wonderful monuments, cathedrals,
art galleries, palaces, chateaux, etc., that represent the highest
attainment in the world of architecture and art. They looked upon the
relics left by a people long gone, and saw the picturesqueness of a
great and wonderful country, as they took their way from the port
cities to the front line trenches, or to the towering Alps, or through
the farms and villages of a quaint and thrifty people. And while they
traveled they learned that there is a fair-skinned people in the world
who believe in the equality of races, and who practice what they
believe.
In addition to this they had an opportunity of making a record for
themselves that will be in no wise hidden from the generations of the
future; a proud record of which the Frenchman took note, and for which
he will be given due credit in the true history of the Great World War.
They also had an opportunity to give the truth a hearing before the
Court of Justice of the civilized world; the truth with regard to
their conduct, their mental capacity, their God-given talents, and
their ability for the leadership of men and the accomplishment of
results that were a credit to themselves and to the nation which they
represented.
All of these things were quite enough to offset whatever came to them
of hardship and sacrifice, of war and suffering, of mean prejudice and
subtle propaganda, of misrepresentation and glaring injustice.
They have a right to have a wonderful hope for the future. Nothing
but the Hand of Providence could have guided them into a great world
maelstrom and brought them out with such wonderful and satisfying
results. Their future endeavor should be to a greater extent than ever
before along the line of demonstrating to the world their ability to
follow that Providence more closely and with a greater faith; to become
to the world a living example that the principles of Christianity can
be applied with greater and increasing success to everyday life; and to
blaze a pathway for themselves whose brightness and beauty will make a
plea so eloquent that the ancient doctrine of the Brotherhood of Man
will finally become the chief cornerstone of our Democracy.
——————————————————