Ventron, a typical French village, nestles in a peaceful valley. To the
right of the town a broad green meadow stretches out, to be broken at
the foot of the mountain by a small, sparkling stream of water. The
crude stone houses, few in number, are built adjoining each other,
forming irregular lines. A large, quaint, high-steepled church, one
shop, several cafes and one hotel, probably patronized by tourists in
summer, make up the town. The prevailing cleanliness of Ventron
naturally impressed us. Without exception, it was the cleanest town in
which we were billeted during our stay in France.
Needless to say, a sigh of satisfaction could be heard when word reached
us to the effect that we would be billeted in barracks, instead of the
usual hay mow. Having learned to adapt ourselves to the surroundings,
most of us were by this time able to carry on a speaking conversation
with all domestic animals, so this change to cleaner barracks somewhat
elated us, for we would no doubt feel more like human beings.
Our duties were few, consisting of "setting up exercises" and perhaps a
two-hour hike in the morning, and gas mask drill (a most unpleasant
duty) in the afternoon. It was on one of our hikes that we discovered in
a secluded spot on the mountain top an old priest's hermitage. Here in a
small white stone shack lived this eccentric old man and worshipped in
his peculiar way.
Huckleberries and other wild berries grew abundantly on the hillsides,
and oftentimes while we were there a volunteer squad issued forth with
pails, to return later with pails loaded to the brim with berries. And
each evening by the candle light, with "seven-and-a-half" in vogue, we
commented most favorably upon those delicious huckleberry pies, just
like the ones mother used to make.
During our stay at Ventron a detail of fifteen men was sent to Kruth, 15
kilometres away, to oversee the erecting of a field hospital. From
reports that came back, our men were the engineers, and were forced to
do most of the work, much to their dismay.
Here also a Y. M. C. A. secretary came to our company, and through him
on several occasions we were delightfully entertained. We were now able
to purchase cigars, cigarettes, chocolate and other necessities of
soldier life.
Bathing facilities were of the poorest--in fact, none at all, as a
bathtub is a rare luxury among the French small-town people. Few of us
were bold enough to brave the cold mountain stream for a plunge. After
things had reached a climax, in that any time during the day a man could
be seen frantically scratching himself in a dozen places at once, and
singing "They Go Wild, Simply Wild Over Me," the company marched to
Cornimont, the nearest town, where we were "decootized," that is, we
were given a bath and all of our clothing was sterilized.
One evening at the hotel several of us ate our first "horse steak," at
least we were told that it was such, and the more we thought of it the
more we believed it true. After three weeks of this life, with plenty of
good food, sleep, exercise and entertainment, we were eager to be back
in the fray. Moving orders came, and early in August we took over our
second sector of the line.