ON LEAVE
I had now been in France about one year and had had no “leave.” During
this period of the war officers were entitled to leave every six
months. I had not applied when the first six months were up, as I was
too busy at the time. Now I had applied and daily I was awaiting my
warrant. The Sunday following the procession I had just returned home
after Mass when a runner from headquarters arrived to tell me that my
warrant had come from brigade headquarters and that if I would call
at the battalion orderly room and sign the necessary papers, I could
procure it.
I left a little place called Tinques at five o’clock and although
the distance was only fifty miles, it was six o’clock the following
morning when we arrived at Boulogne. The “Pullman” was of the side-door
variety; sometimes it held eight horses and at other times forty men.
It seemed to me, as we sat so closely packed on the floor of the car,
as if there were more than forty of us. I sat the whole night long with
my chin almost resting on my knees. It would not do to stand, for the
space thus made would be quickly filled, so that it would be almost
impossible to sit down again. Although many miles away from the sound
of the guns and cheered, furthermore, by the thought of fourteen days’
leave, I have always felt that that night-ride was one of the hardest
of the war, for sitting in that cramped position became actually
painful. I longed to stretch my limbs, but this was impossible. It
was cold in the car, for the doors were kept open so that we could
have air. It is almost incredible how that boxcar bumped us about. But
even through these hardships we were compelled to laugh from time to
time at some witty joke or at some incident that was funny, though not
meant to be so. Once quite an altercation arose between an officer and
a private; the officer was accusing the soldier of actually putting his
feet in the officer’s face. The soldier thus accused was protesting in
a very high-pitched voice: “They ain’t my feet! They ain’t my feet!”
Everybody was laughing. Then came the gruff voice of the officer,
demanding: “Well, whose feet are they?” But nobody seemed to know whose
feet they were.