Part 5

It was the day following that, as I was sitting on the end of my cot about to lie down, a shell struck outside and a piece of the shell about the size of an inkwell ripped a hole in the tent and struck on my pillow. I picked it up while it was still hot, walked out and showed it to Lieutenant Reymond and we laughed together over the incident. Lieutenant Reymond’s laugh was fairly hearty.

On the fifteenth of September, after forty-five days and forty-five nights under shell fire day and night, we received orders to go on repose. A little while later Stevenson packed me in his staff car and started me on my way to Paris to see a doctor.

I was not elated――I was utterly dejected. I had wanted to finish strong and I had all but finished in the discard. “Take a month off or as long as you need, but I want you to come back,” was Steve’s kind and cheering parting, as the car pulled down the road.

The men in the Section had all been wonderful. Lieutenant Reymond had been magnificent, but I am sure but for the brainy, watchful, sympathetic leadership of William Yorke Stevenson, the Section would never have held together those long days and nights, in the seething, shrieking, blood-stained hell in front of Verdun――“The valley of the shadow of death.”

XVIII

In Paris

On leaving the Section, I was feeling too tired and dejected to experience any deep regrets that I would not be with my friends for the celebration which had been planned upon reaching Bar le Duc. Also I was feeling a little depressed in starting off for Paris broke, penniless, not a franc in my pocket. As a matter of fact I had been in that financial condition (if such a condition can be called financial) for nearly two months, because a cablegram which I had sent to the United States the latter part of July had not reached its destination. Whether it had been lost in the ocean or had been confiscated and hypothecated for what it was worth by the enemy, I shall never know. Enough to say that I was broke.

During those long weary days and nights and weeks, I had not possessed the price of a cigarette and during that time I had grown to have the firmest convictions that anyone who is opposed to sending tobacco to the Allies is either most happily ignorant of the nerve-racking strain of war or is out and out pro-German.

Yet I was not allowed to suffer too much, for my friends in the Section, evidently believing that I was honest, were very kind to me, so I managed to have a smoke with a fair degree of regularity. I borrowed two francs from Stockwell with which I bought a pipe in which I smoked Ned Townsend’s “granulated” or even the terrible French tobacco when I thought that Ned Townsend might feel that I was imposing on him too much. I was rather clumsy at rolling cigarettes, but Frank Farnham was very helpful in that respect. He became so accustomed to performing this kind service for me that all I had to do was to look at him and say, “Farney” and out would come his bag of tobacco.

A few days before leaving the Section, I had written in to Paris to despatch a second cablegram to the United States and I hoped upon reaching Paris I would find the essential reply waiting for me at the banking house of Morgan-Harjes.

Just as I was about to get into the Staff car to start for Paris, it was “Farney” who came up to me and handed me twenty francs to see me through the journey.

It was midnight when I reached Paris and I was completely tired out. I engaged a taxicab and told the chauffeur to drive to Henry’s, Number Eleven, Rue Volney. Henry’s Hotel had been the semi-official headquarters of Section One in Paris practically since the war started. Here at least I could make myself known.

To be sure, I had some excellent letters to people in Paris but I certainty was not going to use them to establish credit, and I did not feel up to social calls.

Before the war, Henry’s had been something of a rendezvous for rich sporting men, those who followed the races and the like. Since the war, it was still patronized by those who had gone there before and also by aviators, ambulanciers, army officers, French, English and American. Henry had a transient business and he also held a clientèle. When I had been there in June, I had seen certain well dressed, well groomed young and middle aged men drifting in at certain hours. I saw these same faces there again in September and also saw them again in December. I wondered what their occupations might be, either real or ostensible. Almost any day between five and six, Henry could be seen shaking dice with his clientèle.

Henry was a little short trim fellow with a florid face, grey moustache and usually dressed immaculately in a frock coat. He wore glasses when he took inventory of the cash register. When he took inventory of people, he usually squinted his eyes into little slits, so that people who were being inventoried would scarcely realize that they were being noticed. Among foreigners and Parisians, Henry was one of the characters of the city. I say “was,” because Henry has since passed on to another world. When I reached there the hotel was closed but a ring on the bell brought the concièrge to the door in his pajamas and bath robe. I was shown to a room with a bed in it, white pillows, clean sheets――and it was very nice.

I was not long in getting to bed and not much longer in getting to sleep, but in my sleep I was once more back at Verdun. I could hear the aeroplanes whirring overhead――I could hear the bursting shells――I could see the dead horses on the crowded roads, the rats and filth, the desolation of the front. Not a very peaceful sleep; and when I awoke I felt somewhat confused as I looked over toward the windows and saw the heavy curtains drawn together. A clock was ticking on the mantel. It was nearly nine o’clock. Beside the bed I observed a telephone and without raising my head from the soft, comfortable, clean white pillow, I reached for it. I might be broke, but at least I was going to have one good meal to fortify me for the day. The office answered the call. “Grapefruit,” I said; “soft boiled eggs, toast with butter on it, coffee――and a pack of cigarettes.” I ordered an expensive brand of cigarettes, as I was afraid it might hurt my credit to call for cheap ones. Then I closed my eyes and dozed peacefully.

A little later in the morning, I met Henry. We sat down on the sofa at the foot of the stairs, and I told him Ned Townsend, Stevenson and the other men in the Section had sent him their best regards. Then I told him I was broke but added quickly that I expected a cablegram any day――perhaps to-day. Henry was very nice and polite about it and told me not to worry.

When I went out of the hotel, I intended to go over to the offices of Morgan-Harjes and learn whether a reply had come to my second cablegram, but I really did not feel strong enough to stand any unfavorable news. A hack driver coming along Rue Volney cracked his whip and I almost fell on the pavement. My nerves seemed to be temporarily shattered. I still had a few francs left that “Farney” had given me, so I called a taxi-cab and drove to 21 Rue Reynouard, the headquarters of the American Field Service. Dr. Lines looked me over and informed me that my heart was in bad condition and that I needed a complete rest. He suggested sending me out to a convalescent hospital in the country, but I did not feel well enough to go to a hospital――I did not want to see the inside of a hospital and――besides, I was waiting for a cablegram from the States. Later in the day I pulled myself together and went down Boulevard Haussmann to the offices of Morgan-Harjes. About that place I remembered having written to my partner in the banking business, that while their furniture is not as handsome as ours, they seemed to have more customers.

At Morgan-Harjes there was no news for me.

I went back to Henry’s and retired for the afternoon. I arose for supper, which I had in the café――and signed for it; a short walk as far as the Café de la Paix, back to Henry’s and to bed, back to sleep, back to Verdun――back to the shrieking shells, the whirr of the aeroplanes, the rats, and the crowded, bloodstained roads.

Waking the next morning, I reached for the telephone, breakfasted in bed and dozed until noon, then walked over to Morgan-Harjes.

No news――

After a fashion I have learned to study expression in faces; and on the days immediately following, when I got out of bed and went to Morgan-Harjes, I could tell by the expression of the clerk’s face before he spoke to me that there was no news. I also noticed by the expression on Henry’s face that I should begin to worry. He was not wearing his glasses but he was squinting his eyes.

I spent most of my time in bed. I needed the rest. The crowds, the boulevards, the early evening café life, the movies, the Follies――none of these had any allurement for me. I think it was on the fifth day that I ran into my poet friend young Bob Hillyer of Harvard and South Orange, New Jersey. He too had been out to the front with an Ambulance Section and was now on his way back to Cambridge, Massachusetts, where he was going to accept a professorship in the university which has made that town fairly famous.

I was very glad to see Bob Hillyer again in spite of the fact that he told me I looked perfectly terrible and should really return to the States and not think of going back to the front. He asked me to dinner with himself and a friend of his. I protested, mildly suggesting that they take dinner with me at Henry’s, but the stronger will prevailed and the three of us had dinner together at a little quiet outdoor café underneath the awnings.

They walked back to Henry’s with me, where my pride and hospitality got the better of my judgment.

Wouldn’t they come in and have a little cordial before going along?

Certainly!

We went inside――the cordials were ordered――I laid down three francs.

“Four francs, fifty, Mr. Rice,” said George, who had come to know me by name from having served me my breakfast in bed.

I picked up the three francs, put them in my pocket and said, “Please put it on my bill, George.” It is really terrible to be apparently well-to-do and not have any money to do it with.

Hillyer and his friend said “Good-night,” and I promptly went to bed. It was a little past midnight I think and I had been fast asleep for some time, back at Verdun with the bursting shells and scurrying and scurrilous rats, when I suddenly became conscious of the fact that a firm hand was resting on each one of my shoulders. I awoke with a start and there stood Ned Townsend smiling broadly.

“Get up,” he said. “Don’t you know it is your turn out to post?” At the foot of the bed stood “Red” Day. They had just reached Paris and informed me they had come on from the front to cheer me up a bit. “Farney” was with them too.

Why say I was glad to see them all? They sat on the side of the bed and told me about the banquet at Bar le Duc and Ned told me that “Red” and “Farney” were slated for the Croix de Guerre, which was very good news.

Townsend had received the Croix de Guerre a long time before.

We had late breakfast together and they paid for it and then I went around to Morgan-Harjes. I read the expression on the clerk’s face as I stepped up to the window. When I left, I discovered there was a spring to my step which had been absent on the previous days.

I walked rapidly back to Henry’s and into the hotel. Henry was in the hallway at the foot of the stairs. As he saw me, I observed the expression on his face――he was not wearing his glasses but his eyes were squinted into little slits. I knew what was coming as he said he would like to speak to me. I cheerfully replied: “It is all right, the cablegram has come.”

When I saw Ned Townsend, “Red” Day and “Farney,” I told them they were to have supper at a certain quiet little café of mine, opposite the “Chinese Umbrella.”

XIX

Aillianville

Though my leave had not expired, I decided to return to the front with Townsend, “Red” Day and “Farney.” The Section had moved down into Lorraine, in the foot hills of the Vosges, the land of Joan of Arc. We found our Section in the town of Aillianville. There a barn had been converted into a dining room and up in the loft some of the men had placed their cots, while others were billeted in the homes of the townspeople――plain but wonderfully kindhearted peasant folks whose dress was in keeping with the surroundings and who splashed around the muddy streets in their wooden sabots――and the streets were often muddy, for it rained a great deal of the time. But in spite of frequent rains it was none the less delightful here. It was a most pleasant contrast to the desolation in front of Verdun――to see unmolested forests, the foliage turning to autumn colors――to see cows grazing in the fields――sometimes a dog on a frolic, barking at their heels――to see peasant women sitting in the fields with their knitting and keeping a watchful eye on the cattle――and the war not so very many miles away.

Ned Townsend and I lost no time in finding quarters in the home of a peasant. The house, which could not have been built later than the seventeenth century, had two rooms and a garret. One room with open fire place served as a kitchen, living room and bedroom all combined. A bed was built in the wall and during the day was hidden by curtains. Here slept the patron Tourgant and his wife. Townsend and I took the other room, which had two beds in it. One of the window panes was gone, but this was none the less luxury. Our work was light and we enjoyed the life to the fullest extent. We could retire at night with a sense of security that we were not likely to be disturbed before morning. The house stood under the shadow of an ancient church and if we did lie awake, we could hear the clock in the steeple chiming off the quarter hours. It was sometimes pleasant to awaken in the middle of the night to hear the clock striking the hour and then to fall asleep again with the thought that there were some hours left for undisturbed rest.

It was usually Madame Tourgant, with wrinkled face, bronzed like a gipsy, who called us in the morning and set a cup of hot coffee by our beds. Sometimes when we came in late, chilled and wet with the rain, Monsieur Tourgant would get out of bed, pull on a few clothes, kick the dying embers of the faggots on the hearth into life and heat a cup of coffee for us. And so if there was some work to do, there was time for rest and relaxation.

In this country, it had once been the sport of kings to hunt the wild boar. Now the kings were otherwise engaged, but it was still the sport of peasants and poilus. Kings do not control all the sport there is――especially now.

One night we went out on a wild boar hunt, skirting the edge of a thick forest, not far from Aillianville down in the direction of the ancient town of Grand. Midnight, our hunt being unsuccessful, we sat down on the ground in the moonlight and enjoyed the feast which we had brought with us. We did not have another opportunity to go boar hunting because of the rains, which caused Ned Townsend――or was it “Red” Day?――to complain that the ground was too wet to sit on.

But if we had been unsuccessful on our hunt, our patron M. Tourgant fared better, bringing one in a couple of days later and the following night we were invited to sit around the open fireplace while Madame Tourgant put slices of it to sizzling over the faggots on the open fireplace. She prepared other things for the supper too. Some French soldiers that we knew were with us and I am sure ’most any king would have relinquished his crown for a night, to have sat under those old blackened rafters and enjoyed the sport of ordinary mortals.

Sometimes in Aillianville we would drop into the little “Cheval Blanc Café” to write letters or sit up at the open log fireplace with Madame Julie and her husband the patron and while drying our feet which were usually wet, read the romances of Alexandre Dumas and the like; sometimes the butcher maidens from the neighboring town of Grand would come driving along with their butcher wagon and from them we would procure a slice of ham or bacon which Madame Julie would cook for us with an omelette. Sometimes in the early evening, we played dominoes in the “Cheval Blanc” for stakes which were not ruinous. In the early evening Madame Julie’s niece Marie might drop in to help her with the dishes.

Marie was a cripple girl, but she was none the less the queen of all Aillianville. Her father owned his own comfortable little home and was the possessor of more cows than anyone else in the town. Marie’s cheeks were bronzed from the sun while watching her father’s cows. Her teeth shone white when she smiled. She had a noble brow and a regal face. Given the opportunity of two or three years in a fashionable finishing school, provided she did not become too highly educated, Marie could have been transplanted to Madison Avenue or Rittenhouse Square and scored a decided hit. I have it from one who lives not far from Madison Avenue and confirmed by one who lives not far from Rittenhouse Square. Marie will probably marry a poilu returning from the war with one arm and a Croix de Guerre and live happily ever after in the peaceful town of Aillianville.

Sometimes sitting by the log fire in the “Cheval Blanc,” we would hear the clank of wooden sabots on the stone pavement outside, the door would open and old Jacques, the blacksmith of rugged voice and jet black beard, would bluster in for his bottle of wine.

We lived with the peasants and loved them. They were kind, polite, chivalrous――they were real.

On occasion, there was music in the evening in the “Lion d’Or Café” further down the street. One night, toward the end of October, we held a dance in the “Lion d’Or.” A guitar and a mandolin furnished the music. The villagers came around in their wooden sabots. French soldiers in their blue uniforms were there. Back in the shadow of a corner, a group of officers sat enjoying the scene, no doubt wishing they might take an active part. In the course of the evening, a young fellow was lifted on a table and sang “Madelon,” a song popular with the French just then.

It was pretty close to midnight when a message came in that one of our cars had broken down along the road about ten miles out. A relief party was organized and the dance came to an end.

It had been snowing in the late afternoon and evening. When we went out of the Lion d’Or the moon was breaking through the clouds, and the streets, tile roofs of the houses and the church steeples were white with snow.

Not one of us who was not a little sad a few days later on receiving orders to move from the town of Aillianville to the ancient town of Beaufromont, built on the side of a steep hill. We were glad that the villagers also expressed sorrow at the parting. Some of those plain peasant women were kind enough to weep a little as they smilingly waved “Au ’voir” to us.

Our old patron, the boar hunter Tourgant, was so anxious to bid us a fitting farewell when we started in the early morning that he stayed up most of the night. When we moved out of the town he was asleep in the blacksmith shop of old Jacques of rugged voice and jet black beard.

As we drew up in line outside the village, someone commemorated the departure in verse:

Farewell, my Aillianville, in fair Lorraine, Town where sun shines through the rain, The “Cheval Blanc,” the “Lion d’Or,” “Au ’voir,” farewell forever more. I was with you when woods were brown, When boars were hunted on the down, When log fire crackled on the hearth And in the evening there was mirth And music in the town I love so well, Oh, Aillianville, au ’voir, farewell.

During our stay in Aillianville, Section One, American Field Service Volunteers, was taken over by the American army and there ceased to be any volunteer ambulance service. My work was done, but the Section being short of men I agreed to stay on indefinitely until new men came on.

One day, to be exact, Thanksgiving morning, outside the town of Neufchateau, on the road to Nancy, I saw some French troops drawn up on review. A band was playing at their head. By a strange coincidence I had heard that same band playing once before back in Houdainville as those same troops were advancing for the big offensive in front of Verdun.

On this Thanksgiving morning, the review being over, the men stacked arms and walked about the field. One of the soldiers walked over to where I was talking with some friends. He wore a steel helmet, but underneath the visor I could see a scar across his forehead and there was a scar on his cheek. He asked me if I remembered him and I was obliged to confess that I did not. He then informed me that on September second, in front of Douaumont, when he had received these two scars, I had carried him back. No wonder I had not recognized him.

Then as we stood there I heard another band playing in the distance. It grew nearer and nearer till at last I saw an American flag rising over the brow of the hill and back of it swinging along the road four thousand men in khaki.

I confess I felt a thrill!

XX

Vive l’Amérique! Vive la France!

The delightful days at Aillianville will always stand out in my memory in marked contrast with the forty-five days and forty-five long nights that we spent before Verdun. I shall always remember a night in a dug-out in front of Verdun toward the end of our long siege. The place was dimly lighted. At one end was a table on which there was a telephone. A French officer sat there writing reports and answering telephone calls. “’Allo! ’Allo!” he would say, taking down the receiver. Along the wall was a wooden bench on which sat two weary poilus, their heads nodding under their steel helmets. On the floor, a wounded soldier lay on a stretcher. Outside I could hear the firing of the guns, the trampling of horses, the straining and groaning of the heavy munition trucks pulling up the grade.

I was very tired, in fact I had reached the stage of premonitions. I felt that luck had been with me just as long as might be expected and in the fagged, depressed condition of my brain I felt quite certain that my next time out would be my last. I have seen others pass through the same stage when they have been worn out. I suppose Alan Seeger must have felt like that when he wrote his wonderful poem “I have a rendezvous with Death.”

As I sat there waiting for my turn to go out and expecting a call each time the telephone rang, I got to thinking of my early impressions upon reaching France. It seemed a long time since I had landed in France. Then I got to thinking of my later impressions after coming to the Front. To keep my mind from dwelling on what was happening outside, where I must soon go, I took some scraps of paper and wrote a brief summary of my impressions, supposing that it might be the last words I would write. I had just finished writing when the telephone rang. The officer took down the receiver, “’Allo! ’Allo! San Fein!” The officer turned to me. It was my turn out. I put the scraps of paper in my pocket, slipped into my heavy coat, put on my steel helmet, shook hands with the officer and went out.