AN INCIDENT
Early spring, 1916, at Boulogne, dressed, as a French poilu, I stepped
off the channel boat from Folkstone, and, hurrying to the railroad
station, learned that the express would not leave for Paris till 8
o’clock—a wait of five hours.
The day was cold. Snow was blowing around the street corner. The raw sea
breeze cut to the marrow. Buttoning a thin overcoat, still crumpled from
going through the crumming machine, sure sign of hospital treatment, I
walked about aimlessly. “Fish and chips.” Yes, that was what I wanted. I
wasn’t hungry, but it must be warm inside. It was also the last chance
for some time to indulge in finny luxuries. Lots of water in those long,
narrow trenches, skirting “No-Man’s-Land,” but no fish. Grinning, I
recalled one cold, heart-breaking morning, when an unseen German yelled
across:
“Hello, Français, have you the brandy?”
“No, have you?”
“No, we have not; but we have the water!”
We knew that—for we had just drained our trench into theirs.
I took my time and when not picking fish bones gazed, reflectively, at
the miserable weather outside. I chatted in English with British Tommies
and exchanged a few remarks in French with the little waitress. At the
cashier’s counter, a stranger, dressed as an English private soldier,
rasped out, in an aggressive, authoritative voice.
“Here! You speak very good English.”
In spite of not liking his tone, I responded, “Oh, I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? Well, I know. You speak as good English as I do.”
“I don’t know that you have any monopoly on the English language.”
“You don’t know, eh, you don’t know? I would like to know what you do
know.”
”Well, I know something you don’t.”
“What’s that?”
“I know enough to mind my own business.”
After a few seconds dead silence, the Englishman said, “Who are you?”
“That’s my business.”
“It’s my business to find out.”
“Well, find out.”
“Let me see your papers.”
“I will not.”
“If you don’t let me see your papers, I will take you up to the Base
Court.”
“You won’t take me any place—understand that?”
I paid the frightened little waitress. The English Tommies were taking
eyefulls instead of mouthsfull. I was angered. I was minding my own
business. Why could not the Englishman mind his. The more I thought of
it, the warmer I got. Turning to him I said, “You not only don’t mind
your own business, but you don’t know where you are. You are in France,
where soldiers are treated as men.”
Half an hour later, the Englishman, accompanied by a Frenchman in
uniform, stopped me in the street. The Frenchman spoke,—
“Good day, mister.”
“Good day!”
“Will you show me your papers, if you please?”
“Who are you—are you a policeman?”
“No.”
“What right have you to see my papers?”
“I belong to the Bureau.”
“The Bureau of shirkers?”
“No, the Bureau of the Place.”
“Well, I will show them at the proper time and place.”
A small crowd had collected. A poilu, covered with trench mud, asked,
“What is the matter?”
“Oh, this fellow wants to see my papers.”
“Well, haven’t you got them?”
“Yes.”
“Let me see them.”
At the first glance he saw the Foreign Legion stamp.
“Ha, ha, la Legion! I know the Legion, come along and we will have a
litre of wine.”
So, we two walked away and left the crowd disputing among themselves. I
remarked to the Englishman, who had stood silently watching, “I told you
before, you were too ignorant to mind your own business. Now, you see
you are.”
The wine disposed of, we parted. Looking back, I saw the Englishman
following a hundred yards behind. He crossed the street and stood on the
opposite corner. He stopped three English officers and told his little
tale of woe. They crossed, in perfect time, spurs jingling, and bore
down, three abreast, upon me, the pauvre poilu, who did not salute.
“You have come from England, where you have been spending your
convalescence?”
“Yes.”
“Have you your convalescence papers with you?”
“Of course.”
“You must excuse me; but, would you mind showing them?”
“Certainly, with pleasure.”
After scanning them, one said to the other, “They look all right.” No
answer. “They look all right, don’t they, Phil?” No answer. The junior
officer, a Lieutenant, conducted the examination. Of the other two older
men, one turned his head away, looking down the street, the other gazed
at the Lieutenant with a peculiar, almost disgusted expression.
I then asked, “By the way, is it the business of the English in France
to demand the credentials of French soldiers? What right has that man to
interfere with me?”
“You must show your papers to the military authorities.”
“Is that man a ‘military authority’?”
The Lieutenant looked round and not seeing the disturber, turned to
Phil, “Where is he?”
“Oh, I don’t know. He said something about going to get the military
police. Let’s go.” The Lieutenant, turning to me, said, “It is all
right. You may go and tell that man we said you were all right.”
I did not move, but stood at attention and saluted while the officers
walked away.
I didn’t know who “that man” was, nor yet the name of “we,” but I didn’t
care. Half an hour later “that man” arrived with English soldiers, or
military police, headed by a newly made Corporal and a Scotch veteran
who radiated intelligence with dignity and self-respect.
After walking, captive, a few minutes, I asked, “Where are we going?”
“To the Base Court.”
I thought I was a sucker, playing the Butt-in-ski’s game. Throwing my
back against the wall, I answered,—“If you want to take me to the Base
Court, you will have to carry me.”
A long silence followed, and a crowd collected. The English corporal
started to bluster. I demanded,—“What business have you to interfere
with me?”
“We have orders to make you show your papers.”
“Who gave you those orders?”
The Corporal did not answer. The Scotchman turned to him and said,—“Who
is that damned fool that is always getting us into trouble?”
The Corporal responded,—“I don’t know,—he gave me a card. Here it is.”
I looked over the Corporal’s shoulder and read, Lieutenant P——n.
The Scotchman asked,—“Don’t you have to show your papers?”
“Yes, to those who have the right to see them.”
“Who are they?”
“The gendarmes, the commissaire, and the proper officials.”
Then, that smooth Scotchman slipped one over on me,—“Look here, soldier,
don’t be foolish. Think of yourself and look at us—we would look like
hell getting into a row with a French soldier, with this crowd about,
wouldn’t we? If you don’t want to go to the English court, let’s go to
the French commissaire and get the damned thing over with.”
I replied, “You are engaged in a lovely business, aren’t you? You permit
German officers, who are fighting in the German army against Great
Britain, to retain their titles in the English House of Lords; and you
come over to France and arrest your ally, the French common soldier.”
“We had to mind orders, ma lad, ’E don’t doubt ye’re a’ richt.”
The Corporal put in, “I’m not so sure about that.”
I replied, “I bet you’re making a trip for nothing.”
“What will you bet?”
“Oh, I don’t know—a glass of beer.”
“Good, that’s a go,” said the Corporal. “Ah’ll help ye drink it,” said
the Scot.
The Commissaire examined my papers closely. Turning to the Corporal, he
asked, “What have you brought this man here for?”
The Corporal replied, “He speaks very good English and not very good
French.”
The Commissaire observed, “I don’t know about his English, but he speaks
better French than you do.”
“We don’t know who he is.”
The Commissaire responded, “This man is a soldier of France, an American
citizen, a volunteer in the Foreign Legion. His papers show that, and
his identification badge confirms it. The papers also state he was
wounded in the forehead. Look at that scar! The papers show he is
returning to his regiment. Here is his railroad ticket. What do you want
with him? What charge do you enter against him?”
The Corporal looked uncomfortable. The Scotchman walked away. The
Commissaire came around the table and shook hands with me. In horror,
the Corporal whispered, pointing to the Commissaire, “He is a Colonel!”
and started to walk away. I called out, “Here, where are you
going—aren’t you going to buy that beer?”
After buying, the Corporal hurried off. I followed more slowly, watched
half a dozen English soldiers in animated conversation with the
Corporal, the Scotchman and the Lieutenant Buttinski.
I studied the pantomime for some time, then wandered about, till my
train was ready to start for Paris. Seeing Lieutenant P——n looking
through the iron railing, I waved him farewell; but he did not respond.
A Frenchman would have either waved his hand or shook his fist!