were loading and discharging cargoes, and a thrill passed through me
as I saw my first batch of German prisoners at work. They were immense
fellows, nearly every one being six feet or over, and they were guarded
by little French soldiers, averaging about five feet five inches, with
long rifles and fixed bayonets. As we passed, the German prisoners
scowled at us, and we, feeling quite safe on the deck, yelled back
insults at them. One big Irishman, right near me, took great glee in
jumping up and down on the hatchway and running his finger across his
throat. This seemed to enrage the prisoners and they yelled something
in German. The Irishman must have understood it, for he let out a
volley of curses in return. The French sentry seemed to enjoy this
barrage of insults and did not in any way attempt to curtail the
prisoners' remarks.
"Pretty soon the prisoners faded out of sight and we came alongside the
dock at Bordeaux. I was all eagerness and strained my eyes so as not to
miss the least thing. The dock was full of French Cavalrymen, hurrying
to and fro. Huge Turcos, black as the ace of spades, with white turbans
on their heads, were majestically striding about.
"After we warped into the dock and made fast, our work was over. We had
nothing to do with the unloading of the horses. The French Cavalrymen
came on board with a bunch of Cavalry halters hanging over their arms.
It was a marvel to see with what ease and efficiency that ship was
unloaded. The condition of the horses was pitiful. They could hardly
bend their legs from stiffness. They hobbled down the gangplank and
stood trembling on the dock, stretching out their necks and taking long
breaths of the pure air. Then they started to whinny, calling backward
and forward to each other. Even though I did not understand horse
language, I knew exactly what they were saying. They were thanking
their horse God for their deliverance from that hell ship, and were
looking forward to green pastures and a good roll in the dirt. Pretty
soon you could see them bend their forelegs and lie down on the dock,
and then try to roll over. Some of them did not have the strength for
this and only feebly kicked. Pretty soon the whole dock was a mass
of rolling horses, the Frenchmen jumping around, gesticulating and
jabbering.
"After getting the horses up, the Frenchmen divided them into classes
according to their height and weight. Then each horse was led into
a ring chalked out on the dock and the army inspectors examined it.
Very few were rejected. From this ring of chalk the horse was led into
a portable stall and branded. You could hear the sing-song voice of
the brander shouting out what sounded like 'Battry Loo.' As he yelled
this, a French private came over, got the horse which had been branded,
and led it away. An interpreter I was talking to informed me that
the average life of a horse in the French Army was three days. These
poor beasts had only left that hell ship to go into the worse Hell of
bursting shells and cracking bullets.
"I, after passing a rigid examination as to my nationality, and being
issued a cattleman's passport, inquired my way to the Prefect of
Police. I delivered to him the sealed envelope which I had received
in New York. Upon opening it, he was very gracious to me and directed
me into a rear room, where an interpreter put me through a grilling
examination. From there I was taken to a hotel, and the next morning,
in the company of a Sergeant and a Private, got into a little matchbox
compartment on the funniest looking train I ever saw. The track seemed
about three feet wide, and the wheels of the cars like huge cogwheels
on an engine, minus the cogs. After bumping, stopping, and sometimes
sliding backwards for twenty-six hours, we reached a little town.
Supplies were piled up there as high as houses. Officers and enlisted
men were hurrying to and fro, and I could see long trains of supply
wagons and artillery limbers always moving in the same direction, to
the front.
"I was ushered into the presence of a French officer, who, I later
found out, was a Brigadier-General of the Quartermaster Corps. I
could hear a distant booming; they told me it was the guns of France,
striving to hold back the German invaders. I trembled all over with
excitement, and a feeling that I cannot describe rushed over me. I was
listening to my first sound of the guns on the Western Front.
"Two days afterward I returned to Bordeaux, and shipped to New York on
the French Liner _Rochambeau_. When I arrived in New York I reported
to the Frenchman who had sent me over. He was very courteous and, as
I reached out to shake hands with him, he placed both hands on my
shoulders and kissed me on the right and left cheek. I was dumfounded
and blushed all over. I think I could have borne another trip across
with horses, but that being kissed upon my return completely got my
goat.
"I went back to the routine of my office, but everything had lost
color and seemed monotonous. I believe I had left my heart in France,
and I felt mean and small over there, eating three squares a day and
sleeping on a soft bed, when the armies on the other side were making
the world's history.
"Several times later I passed that sign on Greenwich Street, 'Horses
for France, Men Wanted,' and the pictures of the second foreman
dropping the pasty-faced doctor would loom before my eyes. I do not
know to this day what became of that nervy wreck of humanity, who had
the temerity to tell our foreman where he got off at.
"So, Sailor Bill, old scout, how about that for a 'passage,'" concluded
Yank.
Sailor Bill did not answer.
Curly butted in: "Me for the trenches every time."
The rest agreed with Curly. So did Yank.
THE END