I ADOPT THE AMERICAN ARMY
Looking back over my three months in France, most of the time spent in
visiting American military camps, some experiences stand out above all
others. One, a precious personal experience, gave me my first insight
into the splendid idealism and individual worth of the enlisted men
of our army. I had gone to France a newspaper correspondent, without
a single plan, without even a hope of seeing my soldier son. I had no
intention of using my privileged position to seek him out. I did not
know where he was, nor did I ask.
The American soldier abroad is theoretically still in America. He gets
his letters through an American branch post-office in Paris, and they
are sent to him in care of his regiment and his company, with no more
definite address than “American Expeditionary Force.” My son knew my
Paris address, but he could not, even had he wished to do so, tell me
his.
With a few thousand more impatient youngsters my boy had enlisted
before the draft, fearing that he might draw a late number. He signed
up on the day when I sailed for Russia, and he was in France nearly
two months before I returned to the United States. Thus our separation
had been a longer one than was usual in this war. So when he wrote me
in February that he had been given a week’s leave and hoped to be sent
to Aix-les-Bains, I hoped so too most fervently, because I had been
ordered to Aix-les-Bains to write the story of the first vacation of
our soldiers.
I arrived two days after the first contingent of men, the dried mud of
the trenches caking their uniforms and their worn boots, had marched
to music and cheers through the flag-draped streets of Aix. I drove
directly from the station to the headquarters of the provost marshal,
and asked if a certain private soldier was in town, and if so where.
He was there, and a sympathetic young man in uniform of the military
police searched the lists for the record of his hotel. It is part of
the intelligent care taken of our soldiers overseas that even on their
permissions, or leaves from duty, the highest authorities know exactly
where they live and how. No mother need worry lest her son get lost in
France. He can’t get lost.
In two minutes I had my son’s address and was on my way to the
hotel. He was not there, but the black-eyed little _patronne_, also
sympathetic, found me a room on his floor. It was near the luncheon
hour and I sat down at the window nearest the street, eagerly
scrutinizing every soldier who passed, especially those who turned in
at the hotel gate. Finally a soldier came swinging down the street,
and it seemed to me that he looked familiar. Yet I was not sure. Could
nine months make such a difference in a boy of twenty? This one, with
the absurd little tooth-brush mustache and the cap on the side of
his head, was taller, broader, straighter than my son. He was more
intensely alive. Yet he walked like my Julian.
I waited for him to come up-stairs, but he did not come. I decided that
he had gone directly to the dining-room, so I went down-stairs and
into the big room, every table of which was filled with uniformed men,
eating, laughing and talking.
It was the boy. I was so overwhelmed at the sight of him that I could
not take more than a step into the room. I could not speak. Something
of my intense emotion must have reached him, for he looked up, saw
me, and in one bound was beside me with his arms wide, just as when I
used to visit him unexpectedly at school. “Mother, mother!” he cried.
Instantly at the word the noisy talk and laughter stopped dead, and
every man in the room sprang to his feet. It was not a tribute to me,
but to their own mothers at home. Right there I adopted the American
army.
I am proud to say that a small section of the American army, all of
it in that hotel, adopted me. Some were too shy to come up and be
introduced, but I had broad smiles whenever I met any of them, and
always, when I entered the dining-room, the same chivalric greeting.
I talked with hundreds of soldiers during that week in Aix-les-Bains,
and in the little town of Chambéry, two miles distant, also a vacation
center for our men. It is not mere boasting to say that they are, man
for man, the most amazingly fine-looking soldiers in the world. They
average rather larger than the English, and broader and more muscular
than either English or French.
“_Regardez donc, les épaules!_” Look at the shoulders, I have heard
dozens of Frenchmen exclaim. And they might as well exclaim, look at
their pink and healthy skins, their clear eyes and splendid teeth.
A generation ago we were known as a nation of dyspeptics. No one in
France or England will ever call us that again. Our soldiers are as
nearly perfect physical specimens as any men alive.
They are remarkably intelligent. Their eyes and ears are wide open to
learn all they can of the wonderful land of France, and especially
of the historic past which lives in old châteaus, ruined castles and
Roman remains all over France. Aix-les-Bains, as every one probably
knows, is in Savoy, which was once an Italian state, but which voted
itself French sometime in the eighteen-fifties. In Chambéry is an
ancient château which was the seat of the former dukes of Savoy. It
is a picturesque old pile, built in the thirteenth century and still
habitable.
Those American soldiers overran the château, climbed the corkscrew
stone staircase to the top of the tallest watch tower, swarming
over the ivy-clad walls, exploring every corner of the place. They
speculated on probable methods of warfare and defense in the thirteenth
century, and quarreled cheerfully as to how long their regiment could
have held the château against the assaults of the other fellows’
regiment. They had more fun with that château than any of its original
owners ever had.
They climbed mountains around Aix, taking delight in all-day hikes
above the early spring snow line. They seemed thrilled at the thought
that they, fresh from Iowa, North Dakota, Georgia, Texas, were
actually looking across the valleys and hills at Mont Blanc and the
Alps. Bicycles could be rented for about fifteen cents an hour, and
hundreds of men spent their time exploring the country around. In the
late afternoons and evenings they gathered in the big magnificent
casino, now under lease to the Y. M. C. A., and delightfully swapped
experiences.
During the entire week I never once saw a drunken or a disorderly
soldier. One day at luncheon one youth who had imbibed a little too
freely of _vin ordinaire_, perfectly accessible to all, and very
cheap, suddenly became inspired to sing. The only thing he could think
of was the doxology, and he sang one whole line of it before he was
pulled back into his seat and his vocal efforts extinguished in a roar
of laughter. That was the sole and only approach to rough-house I
witnessed in Aix.
The healthy enjoyment and the consistent good behavior of the Americans
seemed to impress the French as miraculous. Half a dozen French
officers on leave in the famous watering place spent hours in the Y.
M. C. A. headquarters, and townspeople brought their families to see
the Americans, hear them sing _Over There_, and _Joan of Arc_, and
stag dance to the music of Lieutenant Europe’s famous regimental
band. Europe, who used to play for idle New York to tango, has a band
of colored soldiers who are going to be known all over the continent
before the war ends. The men all sing as well as play, and their music
is really remarkable. Whenever a colored soldier appeared on the street
the French children followed him in a rapt procession. They followed
all the Americans, but Europe’s men had them hypnotized.
In Aix I saw the beginning of what I believe is going to be a
never-ending friendship and understanding between the American people
and the French. You have heard, no doubt, about how the French double
the prices of everything as soon as an American soldier enters a town.
Some French shopkeepers have done this, of course. The American soldier
seems to be rolling in wealth, and he rarely even counts his change.
The temptation to overcharge a man who throws down a fifty franc note
in payment for an apple, carelessly inquiring “Is that enough,” must
be pretty strong. But let me tell you that avarice is not the ruling
passion of the French, and their dealings with the American soldier are
often marked with consideration most extraordinary.
Vacations do not come cheaply to the American soldier in France, at
least the stay at Aix-les-Bains was not cheap. Every man who went
there was supposed to have a minimum of one hundred and fifty francs,
or twenty-seven dollars, in his possession. When he registered at the
office of the provost marshal he drew a slip of paper with the name of
a hotel on it. To that hotel he was obliged to go. The tariff varied
from ninety-three to one hundred and twenty-eight francs for the week,
and this sum, seventeen dollars and sixty-four cents to twenty-three
dollars and four cents, had to be paid in advance.
A few of the soldiers failed to get this into their heads before
coming, and there was considerable borrowing in the first few days.
Lucky were they who had friends from whom to borrow. One tall shy
youth from Georgia, I think it was Georgia, came to the Y. M. C. A.
with a pathetic tale of tragedy based on the fact that he had arrived
in Aix with only eighty francs in his pocket. He had probably never
been twenty miles from his home village before he went to France with
his regiment, and here he found himself shut out from his hotel in a
strange European town, with thirteen dollars and sixty cents less than
he needed to support existence.
The Y. M. C. A. secretary suggested that he go back and ask permission
to stay as long as his money lasted, but the boy was too frightened
and forlorn to make the venture. Besides, he spoke no French and could
never explain himself to that terrible _patronne_. In France it is
always the women who hold the cash-box and manage the business end of
hotel keeping.
The Y. M. C. A. secretary put on his hat and went back with the
drooping Georgian to plead with the _patronne_. She had not previously
understood the case, and now was all kindness and sympathy.
“The poor infant!” she exclaimed. “So far away from home and only
eighty francs. Wait, monsieur, until I consult my husband.”
Soon she came back smiling. “It is all right, monsieur,” she said. “The
big infant may stay the week for eighty francs. We also have a son
under the colors. May some one be a little kind to him when he needs
it.”
This story, I believe, is more truly typical of the spirit of the
French people toward our men than any tale of extortion, however true.