Chapter 3

I must tell you about the ballet dancing because it was such fun. I didn't want Valentine's day to go by without some little celebration, so I got the sergeants of the various companies together to see if we couldn't get up an impromptu stunt show. Everybody joined in enthusiastically, and in the afternoon we had an uproarious rehearsal in the Supply Co. Mess Hall which is also the Pouillenay theatre. A few violins and two drums were scraped together, and in half an hour we had a little orchestra playing such contagious ragtime that every one was jigging and beating time and cutting all sorts of capers. These boys went simply wild over the first music they had heard in months. The orchestra with the aid of a toothless old piano did wonders. There is lots of talent buried in khaki! The snare drum rolled finely, and another snare drum with the membrane loosened played the part of a rather pudgy, indecisive bass drum. It didn't matter! One boy made an ingenious whistle out of his mess kit, and trilled and whistled, generally playing the part of piccolo, giving life to the orchestra. The rehearsal, if it didn't put the finishing touches on our performance, at least was jolly good fun and filled us with invincible self-confidence for the evening. I had arranged a Valentine tableau for the end, and Mme. Gloriod at home had pinned hundreds of paper flowers on my gray steamer rug in the form of a huge heart. I had even written a sentimental poem which I was to read aloud, and on the whole it was to be a very pretty valentine, when suddenly, about six o'clock came the news that a Y.M.C.A. moving picture show had come to town and would have the mess hall that evening. Our show was off. I was disappointed, especially since the movie machine broke down in the middle of the performance and couldn't be fixed. However, we decided to give our show on the following Monday. And we did. And a ripping good show it was! It went off with snap and the audience was gratifyingly appreciative. Imagine the long, narrow mess hall with its dirt floor, board tables and benches, crowded and packed with soldiers. The light was dim and the air thick with tobacco smoke. At one end is the rough board stage with army blankets pinned up for curtains. Below the stage was the orchestra, all alert for its first performance, and back of the curtains were we, the actors, packed in pretty tight, amid all the excitement and bustle and fun of the moment before the curtain rises. There was I, alone, among all those great rough men! Yet I don't know why I should call them rough. More sweet consideration was never shown any one than was shown me that evening. My overshoes were taken off; a chair was placed for me in the "wings"; as soon as I finished my part my coat was put on and buttoned up for me; and in a thousand little ways these boys took care of me. I did two dances for them. One was a scarf dance that I made up to the "Missouri Waltz," and then the good old cachuca, arranged for another waltz. I had to adapt my dances to the available music. Of course I won an easy triumph, having no competitors, and being the first girl they had seen on the stage for many a day. There's no danger of my getting vain; don't worry. The other stunts ranged from the comic to the serious. All were loudly applauded. Some were awfully good. One sensitive-faced boy played the violin. He had been gassed on the front and had completely lost his voice. It seemed as though he put everything he could not say into that three-dollar violin, such a beautiful, living tone he got. The miserable instrument, the acoustics of the rude mess hall and the jangling piano accompaniment could not detract from the real music he gave us, and the crowd, recognizing it to be real, whistled and clapped and demanded more. Two nights after, we repeated our show, and this time the Major honored us with his presence and said many nice things to us afterward.

Since this show, the battalion orchestra has become an institution. I have made several trips to Sémur in search of instruments. The last time I came back in the Major's side-car in the pouring rain with two cornets, a saxophone and a flute packed in around me under the blankets. These were given me by the Entertainment Department at General Headquarters, after nearly an hour's arguing to convince them that they were needed. It is a great addition. Now the orchestra plays always at the movies when they come to town, about twice a week, and last Friday they played at our dance. I will tell you about that.

I thought it was about time to do something for the officers, as they need fun just as much as the enlisted men, so I proposed a dance. "Where will you get the girls?" they said. "The Red Cross nurses in Sémur," said I. "There is no hall here large enough for a dance," said they. "Yes there is!" said I. Mme. Gloriod had told me of a wooden floor made to fit over the tank in the village "lavoir," which the mayor of Pouillenay had had made in the happy days before the war. The lavoir is a good-sized stone structure with a large tank of soapy water in the middle, round which the women scrub and pound their clothes, gossiping, laughing and scolding all the day long in their raucous French. It is not easy to imagine an up-to-date American dance in this mediaeval, sloppy spot. The Major and a few other optimists backed me up and told me to go ahead. After more or less trouble I got the Red Cross nurses and four or five "Y" girls from various towns committed to last Thursday evening. One lieutenant engaged the Sémur orchestra, which is several months older and more professional than ours. Then I made a memorable call on the Mayor of Pouillenay, M. Champenois, a delightful, impressive old Frenchman. I found him in the parlor of his little stone house seated at a huge desk; his sweet little wife, with black lace in her hair, tending the fire. They made me come in and sit down, and an hour went by in the discussion of art, literature, and the affairs of the world, before they would let me approach the business of the day. When finally I did make my errand known, he granted me the lavoir free of charge, undertaking to have the floor put down himself. We parted the best of friends.

Then followed two days of real work; scrubbing, heating, and decorating and lighting the lavoir. To make a long story short, it was charming when we got through. Evergreens, flags, candles and four electric lights softened and illuminated the dank old place, while two stoves made it reasonably dry and warm. The floor was sprinkled with cornmeal. And the dance was a real success; lots of fun, and also with something distinguished and graceful about it. It was what you might call "a real lace party," though the only lace on the scene were the festoons of ancient cobwebs that swayed from the big oaken rafters high above the reach of the longest broom. As the atmosphere of a battalion radiates from its commanding officer, I give Major S. the credit for that unmistakable "touch" that marked our dance.

No sooner off with one dance than I began plotting another. It seemed too bad that the enlisted men shouldn't have a chance, and the lavoir all decorated and ready. Major S. gave me permission, and M. Champenois generously allowed me to keep the lavoir another evening. Where to get the girls? The Red Cross nurses are allowed to dance only with officers. I went to Mme. Gloriod, who helps me out on every proposition. She made me a list of the names of about thirty French girls, the "four hundred" of Pouillenay, so to speak, and in the afternoon, with two dear little girls to guide me, I interviewed the stern mammas of the said damsels, assuring them it was "comme il faut," urging them to come. About ten accepted, many of the others being in mourning or else sick. Orders were sent to three companies of the battalion, inviting them, making it clear that each was to have one hour of dancing, then was to leave, giving the next a chance. That was the only way we could manage. Whew! didn't they come! At seven the hall was packed with Supply Co. men, and a good many others that had no business there, despite the vigilant guard at the door. The French girls came. Our valiant orchestra struck up. We whirled; we bumped into each other; we Virginia-reeled; we circled; and--the hour was up. All too quick! The men, intoxicated by this taste of fun, refused to leave. The guards could not clear the room. Low, discontented mutterings were heard. "The officers danced all night, why can't we?" "We'll break your whole show up if you make us go." "We'll take all the girls off with us." "We'll stay as long as we like." I was angry. It was a moment that required all my tact. I didn't want the evening to break up in a riot. I didn't want to call an officer if I could help it. But they would not go. All the French girls got scared and began coming up to me to say they must go home. I induced them to stay, somehow. I was on the point of calling off the whole dance there and then, when the thought of my dear F Company waiting quietly outside to get in, made me suddenly resolve to put the thing through. I talked to the boys, putting it up to their sense of fair play, and thank goodness, most of them filed out. F Company came in and the dance went on with increased gusto. The hour was up--I called it out;--quietly, like one man F Co. marched out on the minute and E Co. came in. I can tell you my heart warmed toward F Co. that stood by me from the beginning! E. Co. was fine too, and when the dance was over they escorted me home and gave me a cheer of thanks.

And the next morning, by eleven o'clock, the French women in their sabots and dirty petticoats were kneeling round the soapy water in the lavoir, doubtless chattering about the last two nights' events.

March 18th.

Innumerable interruptions! It doesn't seem possible that ten days have slipped by since this letter was begun, and I apologize for letting them. Meanwhile I have been doing everything under the sun. One of my latest jobs is that of bandmaster. I am coaching and coaxing and imploring three coronets, two clarinets, one saxaphone and a trombone, not to mention the old piano, to become friends instead of deadliest enemies. Nothing but implicit faith in the ultimate triumph of harmony over discord has enabled me to survive the shrieks and grunts and clashings of our rehearsals. I have had to orchestrate and write out all the music myself, and incidentally I am acquiring some interesting and practical knowledge of "the brasses." It is great fun. As soon as they are good enough I will annex them to our string orchestra. Indeed I have already promoted one clarinet player, a cunning little Italian, who now ripples away among the violins.

Our Sunday afternoon chocolate parties are very gay now. We bring over the rattle-top piano from the mess hall to the tent and the orchestra plays all afternoon. The tent is packed with soldiers, most of whom I know pretty well by this time. Near the entrance am I in my blue Y.M.C.A. apron, and my assistants, making kettleful after kettleful of _delicious_ chocolate. I am very careful to have it delicious. The boys line up and we hand them out cupfuls, and cakes, which they take back to the tables and drink at their leisure while listening to the music or playing checkers. All the little French boys in town congregate round the chocolate caldron and all are eager to help in any way, well knowing what their reward will be. I keep them busy too, and before the afternoon is over each one has a "chocolatey" little mouth and a broad smile and nothing but "kind feelings" for the Americans. I am good friends with these little fellows in their pinafores and wooden shoes. Yesterday I played tag with them, and what a clatter they made in their ungainly sabots, which nevertheless did not prevent their running outrageously fast when I was "it."

Spring is coming. Every morning I listen to the unfamiliar songs of strange birds. Yet they speak the sweet message that needs no interpreting. Occasionally we have a fair day between the rainy ones, and how fair it is! On one of these days I went for a wonderful horseback ride with a fine young artillery lieutenant about Hy's age. We cantered gloriously over open fields. We climbed up a high hill. There we were among rocks and ferns and pines, birds warbling about us, skylarks singing out of sight, the warm sun on us, and behind and beyond the graceful, harmonious view of the long valley with the canal, fringed with poplars, glinting through it, and the cultivated, nicely outlined fields, each a different shade of green, stretching far up the opposite hillside.

Well, I mustn't spend any more time on the scenery, for I will either bore you or make Mamma envious. Here comes another interruption! I am really feeling very well. I am very happy. Every one is more than kind to me. I am convinced I did the right thing to come.

Pouillenay, April 1st.

It is a beautiful bright morning. All is serene in the Y.M.C.A. tent, a few boys writing home and a little group huddled round the stove waiting to go through the "Delouser," a monstrous machine which steamed into town this morning. This is in preparation for GOING HOME, for the 78th has received its orders and will probably leave Pouillenay about April 16th. There is an atmosphere of excitement throughout the town. The longed-for news has come and nothing can surpass the supreme happiness of these homesick boys, who have endured so much heroically, and yet who are so like children. Orders have come that the Y.M.C.A. workers are to move with the Division, so I am to have my first experience of army travel. I am certainly glad that I am to be allowed to go along. I would be broken-hearted if I had to leave my battalion while they were still in France.

Many, many things have been happening since I last wrote. Last week the Lightning Division underwent inspection by General Pershing. The review was held in Les Laumes, and I went over to see it. I had not realized before what an immense body of men an Army Division is. On the vast muddy field stood, motionless, ranks and ranks of khaki-clad soldiers, their protective coloring blending with the green-brown of the field. Here and there the Stars and Stripes and the vivid blue and red of the Infantry and Artillery flags made bright spots on the monotonous brown scene.

General Pershing arrived an hour late, an impressive military figure on his beautiful horse. The inspection lasted almost two hours. Then he presented the D.S.M. to about fifty men, pinning the medal on each, and shaking each by the hand. The band played the Star Spangled Banner, and the whole vast body stood rigidly at Attention. The sun came out, making the scene brilliant and lighting up a lovely white village on the top of the hill in the background. It was very beautiful.

The General next went up into the grand stand and the review began, which means that the whole Division marched past. The Infantry came first in their orderly files, dipping their colors as they went by. Then came the Artillery in its seeming magnificent disorder. The great horses plunging, caissons rattling, drivers holding the reins taut, scarlet flags fluttering, it galloped over the muddy, bumpy field with a wonderful rush. This was followed by the Motorized Artillery which came out of the woods like a swarm of huge creeping beetles. Weird monsters they were, and their deafening rattle reached us at a distance like some great magnified buzz. General Pershing gave a speech next, but I couldn't stand up a minute longer so I left, one of the officers who had also had enough taking me back in his car. So when our boys came marching back at 8.30 that evening, after eleven and a half hours on their feet, I was able to greet them with hot chocolate and cakes in the tent, to their great satisfaction.

Let's see; what else have I been doing? I have been cooking simple meals regularly for the sick boys in the infirmary, and feeding one of them who is too weak to sit up. Then my knowledge of dressmaking has been taxed to the limit, for I was called upon to make a stylish gown for the lady in the battalion show; the lady being a tall and extremely lanky man. We have had lots of fun out of it. We are told that our show is the best in the Division, and it is now touring the whole area, playing every evening. Often I go with them, just for fun, and to dress the lady. We have good times, singing as we tour the country in the two big ambulances that the army provides for our transportation. The boys treat me like their sister.

Of course I am most needed in Pouillenay in the evenings, and that is where I usually am, doing my utmost to bring amusement and gaiety into the tent. I fly from one thing to another. I get the chocolate made, forty gallons or so, (that's the easiest thing I do, Mamma!) then I give two men the job of serving it while I fly for my guitar, tune it up, spend a lot of energy coaxing some bashful soul to play, perhaps getting some one to play the mandolin too, then organizing a Virginia reel or a square dance. It invariably takes coaxing, cajoling, insisting, to get them started, and then they get going, and we dance and swing our partners and grand right and left on the dirt floor, a helpful crowd of bystanders clapping their hands, whistling and singing in syncopated rhythm. Then usually the music gives out, and I take the guitar and play anything and everything I know. Jigs, reels, Italian and Russian tunes, all call forth some response from this cosmopolitan army of ours, and we have songs and dances of all nationalities. What scenes that guitar of mine has taken part in since you gave it to me fourteen years ago! Needless to say, I am glad I brought it with me, though it will always be the worse for wear as a result.

Last night the Supply Co. gave a party in honor of its commander, formerly Captain W. who has just been made a major. He is a great old character, much beloved by his men. The banquet was a surprise to him. The mess hall was crowded with men, while on the stage the officers' table was set. They had invited me and I went in dancing costume prepared to perform after dinner. The regimental band was there and played continuously. I wish you could have seen the bass drum! It had the kaiser's portrait painted on it, so that every time the drummer beat it he hit the kaiser on the head. No wonder he played with spirit! It is a first-class brass band and I found it rather thrilling to dance to it.

I can tell you the main events that happen, but the real things, the chance meetings in sympathy, the gripping handclasp, the halting story of disappointment, the seeking for a little mothering, and yes, for love too--these things I cannot write. I can only give and withhold sympathy as it seems right, and pray and strive to be very true and very clear and very strong.

Oh, but it's easy to make chocolate!

Pouillenay, France, Monday, April 14th, 1919.

Just a line this morning before I get up, that being the only way I can get a word in edgewise. Once up and dressed, my time is no longer my own; but safe in bed, I am mistress of myself, and though I may be interrupted every ten minutes, the unarguable helplessness of my position is my great protection, and nothing but my conscience can move me. The first hour or so of day is the only time I reserve for myself. It is only thus that I ever see a newspaper, that my hair gets shampooed, clothes mended, or that you occasionally get a letter. This is the time when the men are out drilling or working on the roads, and the tent is empty, so I take advantage of it.

Interruption. By conscience! There is nothing to do about it. I must get up.

April 17th.

You have asked about the Americans' attitude toward the French. In general it is not flattering. Though I don't sympathize at all with the boys in this feeling toward the French, whom I love, yet I see perfectly how it has come about. It springs from the limitations of both nations. Our boys are terribly homesick and restless. Separated by time and distance from their country, they have come to glorify it even more than it deserves. Coming for the most part from thriving towns and farms, accustomed to work, but with the most modern appliances, they are disgusted by the lack of sanitation and the primitive methods of the peasants in these tiny old villages. It is the contempt of young, pressing, large-scale methods of getting results, for ancient, tranquil ways. It is our fierce elimination of waste versus their huge quantity of tiny savings. Nor is our efficiency more materialistic than this French thrift, though each appears sordid to the other. We are different, that is all. We are both greedy.

And then our soldiers meet mostly the worst sort of French girl, which gives them a bad impression of the country. Also, the French are making money off of us for all they are worth. Not the authorities, perhaps, but the people, in all their transactions. It is, in truth, rather disgusting and ungrateful of them, but perfectly inevitable after the glowing descriptions of the wealth of America which they continually hear, and since our boys _will_ pay almost anything for what they want, and since they are foolish enough to buy tawdry and worthless souvenirs by the thousands at ridiculously high prices.

And then again, we _never_ see an example of fine, strong, and young French manhood. We see the poor old tottering men and the degenerate. Once in a while a French soldier comes through town, and he is usually a poor specimen. We forget that our towns would be equally desolate if we had been at war four years.

It is difficult for this army of simple, honest, normal boys to imagine what they have not seen. Also the weather gets on everybody's nerves. You are inclined to despise anybody so poor-spirited as to settle down and live in such a climate. This continuous, everlasting, never-ending cold rain taxes your temper to the limit. And yet, many very sweet friendships have sprung up between our soldiers and the old women in whose houses they are billeted, their "French mothers" as they call them. And I feel perfectly sure that when they all get home and the dream of America has come true--or perhaps hasn't come true--they will look back on France with real affection and with a little sense of ownership; and they will think of even their discomforts with pleasure. This has been their big adventure; but since they are not bent just now upon reading the book of their own lives, they don't know it.

Paris, May 11th, 1919.

Another shift of scene. Oh, what a change it is! Back to Paris! back to the world, some might say, but--deserted by my family who are now joyously on the water going home. Gone are those happy, remarkable days in darling Pouillenay, gone my beloved Battalion of khaki-clad boys, and left behind is the peaceful, beautiful countryside of the Côte d'Or with its white cattle on the green hills, its ducks and its chickens, its skylarks, and its dear population in sabots.

It has been impossible to send you anything but postal cards the last few weeks because I have been so busy. Also the 78th's post office was disorganized owing to preparations for moving, so I must go back a long way if I am to give you any idea of what has been happening. Let's see.