WHEN JACQUES "WENT WEST"
One of the most pathetic of the personal experiences which I had while I
was in the service was in my association with a young poilu of about
nineteen.
I had become well acquainted with the lad and we had many an interesting
talk together, he speaking in his inimitable French manner and I
responding in my butchered-up attempt at that language.
One day, however, after we had been speaking of how we were going to get
the Germans, Jacques must have become a little careless, and when he
went up to his fire step, raised his head a little too high, for he
received an ugly skull wound.
Some time afterwards I was by his side and, in a husky whisper, he told
me he was seriously wounded. He asked me to bring him a pencil, and said
he was afraid he was "done in." He then fumbled clumsily about in the
pocket of his grand-tunic, or great coat, until he found a piece of
paper. It was in reality a piece of cardboard on which was a photograph
of himself taken with his mother some years before. It was old, faded,
and discolored, and on the back of it he wrote a message which ran
something like this:
Dear Mother--It has been some time since I heard from you. You
doubtless know that father and both brothers have been killed in
the trenches some time ago. Now I am wounded also, and I may not be
able to come to you, as I expected to do next week. But, Mother
dear, even if I do not get to see you, don't feel badly anyway
because you've given all for _La Belle France_, and I may see you
some time--over there--beyond the range.--Lovingly,
Jacques.
Personally I had thought and hoped that his wound was not so serious and
it would not be necessary for me to deliver the message to his mother.
But he knew better than I. And three days later worse came to worst and
poor Jacques "went West." The tragic duty of taking his body back to his
lonely mother, somewhere in France, devolved upon me. I also handed her
his message, but I could not remain. Her grief was too deep. I fairly
ran away from that house.
But that mother's eyes penetrated my soul for days and weeks, and my
thoughts, try as I might, could not get away from her lot. In about
three weeks I felt a strong pull and I made my way back to her little
humble home to see if I could in any way lighten her burden a bit, or
perhaps say some word to bring just a little comfort or assuage her
heart's grief. When I rapped on the door and she answered and saw who I
was, she fairly beamed with pleasure and threw her arms about my neck
exclaiming, "Mr. Benson, I am so glad you have come," and then rushing
over to the dresser drawer she brought out that worn and faded
photograph with her son's message on the back, and as she showed it to
me she exclaimed: "I am going to keep it till I die! It's not for the
value of the picture, but that message interprets the heart of my boy to
me. It tells me that he loves me, and, Mr. Benson, do you know, I wish I
might have another husband and three more boys to go and fight for _La
Belle France_!"
That's an example of heroism and patriotism for America!
And after that, for several weeks, that little loyal French mother, now
alone in the world, sent me regularly some cakes and delicacies, with
the message that as she did not have any of her own now to care for, she
must try to do her best to help those who were helping France to win the
battle for liberty.
Poor Jacques had "gone West." And she need not send him any more
clothes or food, but Jacques and his two brothers and his father too,
have thrown their lives into the scale, and have added just so many more
names to that honor roll, which already is large, of patriots of France.
They loved their country. Every man, woman, and child over there does
likewise, and France will honor them all eternally.
I pray God's blessing on Jacques' mother now.