JEAN AND "FRENCHIE"
That rest was to come ere long--but not immediately. I had seen the
tragedy and horror of modern warfare but I was still to undergo another
heart-tearing ordeal. The boys of a certain company were as handsome a
lot as ever donned a uniform. But some of the best of them were marked
men. Two of these fellows whom I had come to consider as pals, got
theirs a few days later. The name of one was Jean, and I couldn't
pronounce the other, so I used to call him "Frenchie." They were both
fine, strapping lads, larger than the average Frenchman and had the pep
of young Americans. Jean was twenty-one and "Frenchie" I suppose about
twenty-five. We used to have great times together trying to understand
each other and laughing over my mistakes in speaking French. Some of
them were worth laughing at, too.
On occasions I would sit and swap yarns with them or would yield to
their requests to tell them all about the United States. We struck up
an intimacy which was unusual, and it got so that we sought each other's
company whenever possible. The boys used to ask me all kinds of
questions about New York and wanted to know how far out Pike's Peak was
from the metropolis. I had to laugh at their conception of American
geography as much as they did at my conception of their language. Many a
pleasant hour we enjoyed together.
But alas! One Sunday afternoon a gas alarm was suddenly sounded. All the
men along the trench began excitedly fumbling for their gas masks and
shouting to one another. That was the very worst thing that they could
do. Remaining cool and keeping your mouth shut is the only possible
method of combating this awful weapon. You must lose no time in shaking
off your metal trench helmet and getting the gas mask on and buttoned
tightly around your neck, but the way to save time is to go about it
cooly. Now "Frenchie" had become excited and couldn't find his mask. It
wasn't in his bag provided for the purpose. He had lost it. In his
excitement, instead of wetting his handkerchief and tying it over his
nose as a temporary substitute, he began yelling at the other boys,
asking them if they had seen it or if they had an extra one. In doing
this he had taken in several breaths of the deadly fumes and was quickly
overcome. He was carried back into the receiving station and there he
lay in agony. When I got there two men were bending over him as he lay
upon the stretcher and with a fan and oxygen tube, they were trying to
assist him in getting air into his lungs. I went over and spoke to him,
but his eyes were closed and he could not answer. For ten or fifteen
minutes we worked with him, but it seemed like eternity. As his eyelids
twitched, his throat contracted, and his nostrils distended in the awful
effort to get air; I thought I should faint as I was forced to look upon
his indescribable suffering. When once or twice I asked him something
the agonizing efforts which he made to speak to me were terrible to
behold. I would rather die myself than ever have to look on such a sight
again. Death isn't hard to see and the sight of it becomes commonplace
on the battle line. But the spectacle of a fellow-human going through
the slow agonies of the damned, in his vain attempts to get air, is one
which no mortal ought ever to be called upon to undergo.
[Illustration: _Photo by International Film Service._
AMBULANCE MEN WORKING OVER A "GASSED" SOLDIER.]
Of course I cannot know how much actual pain he felt, as it is possible
that the gas deadened his nerves and yet caused him to twitch in this
awful manner; but if poor "Frenchie" suffered any worse than I did in
those few minutes, he is better off dead than living. Finally he turned
a bluish green color and at last gave one great gulp and died. It was
with heavy hearts that we carried him out and then I went back to the
depot.
The Boches had made a terrific charge on about a quarter of a mile
front, but were repulsed with very heavy losses. Naturally our brave
boys were exulting over the fact that they had stood their ground and
made the Germans quickly retreat, leaving numbers of their men upon the
field. I was not very jubilant, however, because the thought of poor
"Frenchie" was still in my mind. Then another shock came to me. I had
gone back to the depot only to find my other comrade, Jean, lying on a
piece of canvas on the floor with a bandage around his head. His face
was turned away from me and a man was administering temporary treatment.
I asked him what was the matter, and upon hearing my voice Jean answered
for himself. "Well, I guess I got mine that time, but you can bet I gave
a good account of myself first. It is all for _La Belle France_,
anyway, and I am damn glad it happened!" He became weak then, and didn't
speak any more. As soon as I got the chance, I asked the soldier
standing by more particularly about the nature of the wound and he said
in a low and faltering voice: "Jean will recover all right, for his
wound is not fatal at all, but," and he broke down as he continued,
"he'll never see light again. The poor fellow has both eyes shot out."
An then he told me what a wonderful fight Jean had put up first,
accounting for four Germans in hand-to-hand fighting. Poor Jean! He will
grope his way through life! But the thing that impressed me most was his
inner feeling, "It's all for _La Belle France_, and I'm damn glad it
happened!"
You can't whip a nation like that.