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A
LITTLE GRAY HOME
IN FRANCE
A
LITTLE GRAY HOME
IN FRANCE
BY
HELEN DAVENPORT GIBBONS
Author of "The Red Rugs of Tarsus**
NEW YORK
THE CENTURY CO.
1919
Copyright, 1919, by
The Centuey Co.
Published, March, 1919
• • • •• • • •
te
TO
RODMAN WANAMAKER
FOREWORD
A comfortable Turk, sitting on a dusty
cushion making a rug, has eternity before him.
He can stop when he likes to pull on the
mouth-piece of his nargileh and dream. He
dreams about the pattern he is weaving.
We are weaving to-day. The force that
moves our shuttle is war. Ours is no simple
frame like that of the Turkish weaver. And
the pattern? So complicated that a plain
body like me cannot make it out. My work
is to tie up the loose strands I can see and pre-
vent dropped stitches.
The boys know they are caught in the work-
ing of a vast machine. Some take things as
they come and sing, "I don't care what be-
comes of me." Some think about what they
see and wish they could understand. And
some know that yesterday has slipped back of
us as a tug drops away from a mighty battle-
cruiser. They realize that the human mind
[vii]
417163
FOREWORD
can forget, and burn with longing to capture
impressions as they fly through the days. But
their work draws out from them all the energy
there is. The pages of the note-book remain
white.
In the study of my Little Gray Home in
France is an old Brittany wardrobe. As boys
toast their toes at the fire-place beside it when
they stop for a breathing space, they tell me
what they think and what they see. On a
shelf are paper and pencil, and when I go
there to get out chocolate or a new pair of
woolen socks I scratch down hastily what my
boys have said. When the bowls of coffee
have been drunk, when the cigarettes have been
smoked, when their names have been written
in the guest-book and the boys have hurried
out into the night to put their two hands on the
steering wheel of the trucks, I light another
candle, and write out the notes in more detail.
Before the initial slow chug-chug tells me they
have cranked and are getting under way, I
have tied another loose strand.
This record belongs to the boys now and
hereafter, now because they have given me the
[viii]
FOREWORD
stories, hereafter because when we are all
home again in the sunshine of peace, they will
have time to remember some of what they did
here, and these pages may give them a peg to
hang their coat on when they try to make their
own record.
H. D. G.
Chateau du Loyer,
Prinquiau par Savenay,
Loire-Inferieure,
October, 1918.
[ix]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
Foreword vii
I The Little Gray Home .... 3
II Treating Soldiers Special ... 10
III The Holf City 21
IV A Steam Roller 42
V A Corporal 49
VI They Come 69
VII Decoration Day 68
VIII How I Travel 74
IX A New Poilu Next Door .... 80
X He Learned His French from a
Laundress 90
XI Our Crusaders on "The Fourth" in
Alsace 99
XII Tommy and Sammy 114
XIII Homesickness 120
XIV Somewhere in the Mud .... 127
[xi]
CHAPTER
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
CONTENTS
PAGE
"Takes a Long Tall Brown-Skin
Man to Make a German Lay His
Rifle Down" 139
A Quarry and a Bus 151
A Little Dutch Cleanser . . . 162
Gentlemen All 168
Where Is Jack? 180
When We Get Back 193
The Singing Heights .... 202
Eight Rubber Boots Standing in a
Row 218
Going Home . . . . . . . 227
U. S. 911,350 236
[xli]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME
IN FRANCE
A LITTLE GRAY HOME
IN FRANCE
CHAPTER I
THE LITTLE GEAY HOME
Twelve houses straggle back through the
wheat fields to form the village of Loyer.
Mine is the largest. That is why it is called
the Chateau, although it is no more than a
"little gray home," the name the American
soldiers have given it. The other houses of
Loyer are all hitched to each other. Starting
with that of the most prosperous peasant, they
taper down, telescope-wise. At the place
where you would look for a caboose on a rail-
way train you see a cuddling thatch.
The Chateau de Loyer is set far back
from the road, behind tall trees, in the midst of
[3]
A WTTIE GRAY HOME IN FKANCE
a tangled garden. The house is of gray stone,
like the druid altar in my neighbor's meadow.
I have looked for years in France for what I
have found here, a bungalow without having
to build it. There are two stories, and the
rooms choO'Choo straight along one after the
other like children's blocks across the nursery
floor. The house is one room deep, and the
windows look out down the slope of hills on
both sides. Because of many front doors
opening straight into the garden, the house
has a "room-for-everybody, come-in" air.
This is confirmed when the boys see the two
enormous guest-rooms beyond the drawing-
room. The walls are whitewashed. Above
the mantelpieces are smoked places, tawny-
brown camel color. Half a dozen walnut beds,
smoothed by years of waxing, take up very
little space. The spreads are the coarse blue
linen made by the people around here.
On the table are the things a boy needs for
writing a letter to mother or bride or sweet-
[4]
THE LITTLE GRAY HOME
heart at home. One boy talked yesterday,
as he wrote, of somebody's birthday. I shall
get the present he wants for her, and attend
to the shipment of it. I leave the cupboard
doors open, an unspoken invitation to tobacco
and chocolate and comfort bags on the shelves.
The hearths are the glory of "The Little Gray
Home." My bedroom fireplace is high enough
for three-year-old Hope to walk into and look
up at the sky. I can burn big logs there.
Each guest-room has its hearth. Logs and a
bimdle of fagots are always ready to light on a
rainy day or a cool night. A summer in the
country in France knows no scorching heat
waves. Sitting by the fire when it is storming,
I get comfort from hearing raindrops come
down with a hiss on a bed of glowing embers.
I am always glad of an excuse to have an open
fire. You can keep your tea hot. More boys
come on rainy days and cold nights, and be-
fore the fire they become expansive, and I am
never bored.
[5]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
A toothless granny with towering starched
cdfe hitched to sparse, braided hair, and with
quilted petticoat doubled up around her, scrubs
every day my floors of well-fitted boards with
such vigor that the glow in her cheeks makes
you forget she is wrinkled as a winter apple.
Madame Criaud, like the rest of my neighbors,
thinks I am an American heiress, and wonders
at the curious whim which brings one who
could go elsewhere with her children to a re-
mote country place away from her kind.
Madame Criaud differs from the others only
because she holds that my being an American
— ergo, careless of money — is no reason why
I should be cheated.
I did not realize how many windows and
doors with glass panes I had until I came to
buy curtain material at 1918 prices. Perhaps
economy led me to tack the headings of the
creamy scrim curtains one pane below the top
of the window frame. But I can argue it was
a desire to keep always visible the line of wind-
[6]
THE LITTLE GRAY HOME
mills of the Dutch type that nin along the
shoulder of the hill until they disappear. The
last one lies so low that its arms curve and
dip like porpoises. But if there were no wind-
mills, the checker-board of little grain fields,
interspersed with meadows where grass is Irish
green, would justify not excluding the outlook
from any window. When it has been raining,
and women and boys toss hay in the simshine,
you smell clover and wet air.
At the other end of the house from the
ground-floor guest-rooms is a fat old kitchen,
which has its own flight of stairs leading to
the upper floor. The artist, dressed in khaki,
and with a war correspondent's brassard on
his arm, dropped in unexpectedly on a sketch-
ing trip through Base One. I took him
around the house, for I wanted to know if I
was right in my idea that the place was artistic.
He didn't stop to put in a guest-room the
khaki school-bag slung over his shoulder with
a strap. The artist's baggage is mostly a
[7]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
thick wad of sketching paper. When we came
to the kitchen, he stood beaming, with head
thrown back and eyes half closed. His fingers
began to unfasten the strap of the kit, and he
sat down on my fireless cooker to sketch the
black-from-smoke stairway in the comer, with
Madame Criaud leaning over a table picking a
chicken. "But, Lester, have you lunched?" I
asked. He answered: "This is great stuff,
Helen, great stuff."
The wood pile outside the kitchen door is
nearly as high as the house, and protects
chicken-run and rabbit-warren from the sea
wind. Servants sleep in a lodge by the gate.
The floor of the summer house is high enough
from the ground for the children to see over
the garden wall. When autos are heard com-
ing up the hill, Christine and Lloyd and Mimi
rush out and shout. Baby Hope waddles after
them, waving her fat hands and piping, ''Les
AmericainSj les Americainsr
[8]
THE LITTLE GRAY HOME
"Hello! Come in and see our mother,"
shouted the other three.
And so we make our friends.
rs]
CHAPTER II
TREATING SOLDIERS SPECIAL
I said, "Where is the ball?"
Lloyd patted my shoulder to attract atten-
tion. I put my coffee cup back on the saucer
and guessed that the ball might still be behind
the cushions of a steamer-chair in the garden
where he had hidden it yesterday when Baby
wanted it. Mother is supposed to know where
things are. Grandma says that when grandpa
used to ask for his Sunday trousers she would
answer that the last time she wore them she
hung them in the bedroom cupboard.
Boys are alike, wherever you find them.
Girls' hair is pulled in Siberia and South
Africa. Jam is hunted in Denmark and Ar-
gentina. Prisoner's base is played as belliger-
[10]
TREATING SOLDIERS SPECIAL
ently in the Hague as in Berlin. A piece of
gingerbread produces the same reaction on
Turkish and American boys.
If grandpa, when he saw his son's sons, was
still boy enough to ask the whereabouts of his
Sunday trousers, is n't that proof that our men
folk never grow up?
Soldiers are boys._ I see, behind sunburned
foreheads, surprise and hurt when some one
has treated them impersonally. Though a
necessary phrase, "You are in the army now,"
is none the less a hard phrase. Military disci-
pline and uniform dress are leveling forces,
essential to the machine. But there are mo-
ments when our boys are not on duty or parade.
When the ball is lost, my little son expects
me to find it. Whatever he wants, it is for
mother to give it to him quickly. Soldiers do
not like to have to ask for a glass of cider or
a cigarette. If the comfort bags are put where
a soldier is free to pick out things to replace
what somebody stole from his kit at the bar-
[11]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
racks, he will feel at home. Nothing is more
appreciated than to give a fellow a chance,
without studying to make it, to sit down and
tell how he and his girl waited instead of rush-
ing into a war wedding.
After the Germans had been throwing shells
into our quarter of Paris for twelve days, some
of which landed in my children's only play-
ground, the Luxembourg Gardens, I felt that
it was time to get them away. It was only
Easter, so we went to Aix-les-Bains for the
month of April. I did not want to return
to my villa on the sea at Houlgate this summer.
Contact with American soldiers in the camps,
when I was lecturing for the Y. M. C. A., and
in the Savoy leave area, had made me want
to work out my own ideas about treating
soldiers special. The Little Gray Home was
chosen because it Ues at the middle point along
a seventeen-kilometer stretch of country high-
way where the soldier, bound inland from the
Holy City, finds only a chilly buvette. The
[12]
TREATING SOLDIERS SPECIAL
woman who dispenses drinks there knows that
she does n't have to go out and chase the pot
of gold at the end of a rainbow — her fortune
rolls in on motor trucks. Heavy motor traffic
from the Holy City to points all over France
passes us constantly, and the largest hospital
center of the American Expeditionary Forces
is four miles from the Little Gray Home.
A truck passes every morning when we are
at breakfast. The boys throw out newspapers.
Several motor cycles aim to go by at lunch
time. A steam-tractor crew sends in a man
to ask for permission to get water from our
well for the boiler. Before the tractor starts
toiling again northward, the soldiers have
mended the windlass so that the pail does not
fall into the water and have to be fished out
patiently every time by my cook, Rosalie.
Soldiers from many camps hire bicycles for
a ride on Sunday morning. As they wheel
by our gate, Mimi wants to know if they like
France. The surprise of hearing a kid speak
[13]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
English in this out-of-way spot jolts the sol-
diers off their bicycles. They come in for
cookies and coffee, while I mend a rent in a
flannel shirt. To be able to strut around in
my husband's light-blue dressing-gown for
half an hour is such a relief from khaki uni-
form that I am told it is as good a vacation
as a week's fishing trip. A motor, new and
stiff, gets cranky in front of our house. After
it has been coaxed into action again, so much
time has been lost that there is still enough to
eat waffles and maple syrup. I tell the boys
I don't wish anybody bad luck, but if they
must break down, for goodness' sake do it near
us. ^
Truck-trains in command of convoy pilots —
usually second lieutenants — ^generally leave the
Holy City in the late afternoon. They aim
only to get clear of the park and test their new
motors before the first night's stop. Last
night a convoy slowed down here. I ran along
until I reached the Cadillac at the head of the
[14]
TREATING SOLDIERS SPECIAL
line. When the tall lieutenant stepped out of
his ear, I greeted him:
"I 'm glad to see you. How do you do!"
"You — you — speak Enghsh?"
"Of course. I was born in Philadelphia."
"Good Lord!" allowed the lieutenant, "and
I in Chester."
I found that he was just going to look for
a field where he and his men could camp. I
told him I had guest-rooms with enough beds
for him and the other officers, and that I could
put up all the men around my place some-
where. There was the room over the kitchen,
the woodshed, the carriage house, and a very
large barn-loft.
While the officers and sergeants were mak-
ing arrangements for the night, I discovered
six lads who had missed out on the mess deal
before the convoy left the Holy City. When
Rosalie was giving them something to eat, I
asked if they, too, were surprised to find that
I was an American.
[16]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
"No," said a young Southerner. **No
Frenchwoman can run like you."
Some of the men gathered around the sum-
mer house, where they had carried pails of
water to indulge in a moonlight scrub. Others
were spreading out their bedding-rolls in the
barn. Mademoiselle Alice, my children's gov-
erness, cannot speak English, but she found a
corporal who knew German. He helped her
carry the iron tripod and the caldron from
the kitchen and found a safe place for them in
the garden. They were chattering away in
the enemy's lingo as they broke up a bundle of
fagots and piled them under the caldron ready
to start a fire quickly in the morning.
Half a dozen boys who had parked their
trucks had come into the house to my study
fire. I asked them, "What are you, boys,
aviators?"
"No, ma'am, only when we get refused a
pass. Then we do go up in the air."
After they had seen to everything, the offi-
[16]
TREATING SOLDIERS SPECIAL
cers had their supper with us. The way you
recognize a good officer is by the care he gives
his men. The dining-room all ready for the
lieutenants: drawn-work runner on the table,
yellow candlesticks, blue Brittany bowls filled
with hot chocolate to warm them up after a
tough day's work. Soft-boiled eggs and tiny
gold-bowled spoons to eat them with. Cam-
embert cheese and toast. How I wished it
were possible to have a dainty meal for every
one in the crowd!
When I lighted the officers to bed, one of
them observed: "It is only fair for me to tell
you before I go into your guest-room that I
am full of cooties."
"That may be — and it is equally true that
other boys have come here like that too.'*
"Doesn't that shock you? Doesn't me
either. It is not their board bill I mind — it
is their traveling expenses."
At five o'clock next morning every mother's
son had a pint of hot coffee. One hundred
[17]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
marched through my rose garden in the early
simshine and filed by the range where I ladled
out the coffee. The only trouble with the
aluminum cups in the mess-kits is that they get
so hot you burn your mouth on them. Luck-
ily, the mess sergeant gave me some tins of
ground coffee to add to mine, and the drink was
nice and strong. On a table near by I had put
roses and doilies and milk and sugar. The
sergeant had added tins of baked beans. I
shivered when I saw the beans were going to
be eaten cold. But the soldiers told me they
were used to that. The boys came on through
the dining-room where some one was cutting
bread. They were invited to sit down in hall
and drawing-room. There were too many of
them for all to sit down at one time, but the
process of getting served was slow enough to
make room for those that were actually eat-
ing. When they finished, they signed their
names in my guest book and got a cigarette.
Then they went to the well to wash mess-kits
[18]
TREATING SOLDIERS SPECIAL
and fill canteens. Several boys had hung little
mirrors on trees and were comfortably shaving.
"Gee — it 's nice to get into somebody's
home," said one.
"Do you know, this is the first time I have
eaten food I did not have to pay for — outside
of our own mess — since we left Hoboken."
"Hey, can-opener, you got a match? We
call the guy that handles the rations on these
convoys can-opener."
"I was just looking for you, Mrs. Gibbons,"
said Mr. Can-Opener. "Found a good knife
in your kitchen. Would you be good enough
to swap it for these?" "These" were four
loaves of bread. He put them on my desk,
and patted the pocket out of which stuck my
knife. A soldier came up to me and inquired:
"Say, lady, where do you pay for this here?"
"Can you read?"
"Course I can read."
"Did you happen to see the sign on my
gate?"
[19]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
"Yes, ma'am."
"What does it say?"
"A Little Gray Home in France."
"Did you see that the biggest word on that
sign is HOME?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Then don't talk to me about paying, boy."
The children were put into an ancient roll-
ing-chair found in the barn, and dragged to the
head of the line. I followed with the lieu-
tenants.
The top sergeant blew a whistk. Motors
began to chug-chug. The line moved slowly.
Shouts. Cheering. A Philadelphia boy took
the insignia off his collar and fired them at
my feet as he passed. One truck-load of
boys sang, "There 's a Long, Long Trail
a- Winding into No-Man's Land." Some one
stood up and waved his hat. He called
"Good-by,— " (a pause)— "Mother!"
[20]
CHAPTER III
THE HOLY CITY
In the Little Gray Home I was marooned.
I tried to rent a pony and cart. Then I let
it be known among the peasants that I was
in the market for the purchase of a horse.
Military people, congressmen on joy rides, and
endless bands of folks inspecting seem to be
the only ones that move about quickly and
easily.
In what category am I? Convoys do not
always have provisions. To be able to offer a
good meal at any time means giving aid and
comfort to the soldier. Food I must have,
and there is only one way to get it — buy it
from Uncle Sam. The colonel says he is go-
ing to make me a mess sergeant. Until ra-
[21]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
tions are sent to me, I must forage. Yes,
I am military.
When the meat truck from the hospital
passed, I hailed the driver.
"Coming along with you, Tony, this morn-
ing!" said I, climbing up to the seat and sitting
down beside him.
"Sure you are!" Tony profited by the stop
to light a cigarette. "Off for the Holy City,"
he said, putting his overcoat on my lap ; "that 's
the nearest we '11 get to home for God knows
when!"
As we bumped over a grade crossing, an
M. P. stepped out. Holding up his stick, he
shouted,
"Girls ain't allowed to ride on motor-
trucks!"
Tony looked at me.
"Thinks you're a French mademoiselle,"
whispered Tony. "Gosh ! Mrs. Gibbons, you '11
have to get me out of this!"
I leaned over and smiled at the M. P.
in]
THE HOLY CITY
**Come here, boy," I said. 'Tut your hand
in mine."
He did it, slowly and wonderingly.
"If there 's ever anything I can do for you,
I want you to tell me," I said. "I 'm thirty-
five years old. No one has called me 'girl' for
years. I 'm flattered and touched 1"
The M. P. put his stick back of him. He
backed. "Y-y-yes, ma'am," said he.
Since then no M. P. has stopped me. Word
has gone up and down the line, "Better not
touch that woman, she 's loaded."
We were approaching the Holy City.
"I 'm proud to be an American when I look
at the work our men have done here. I have
been doing this route for a year now. Every
time I go through this town it looks more hke
Jersey City."
"It didn't look like Jersey City when the
first Americans landed, Tony. That was the
month before you came over. The censorship
thought the great event could be concealed.
[23]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
No mention in the newspapers of this or any
other port. But we all knew about it before-
hand— concierge as soon as cabinet minister.
Of course I jumped on a train with my hus-
band, and we came to greet the boys. Dear
me, how homesick that first bunch was inside
of twenty-four hours ! The Holy City was n't
any holier then than it is now. But it was
very strange and foreign. Those two adjec-
tives, you know, are the same in French. The
end of June, 1917! Scarcely a year ago.
And to follow this long road for miles to-day,
flanked on both sides with American camps
and depots and endless railroad tracks, where
there were only cat-tails last year, to see these
ships with the American flag, — more American
ships than I Ve seen together at one time in
all my life before, and I know East and West
rivers well, — it makes me feel that Aladdin's
lamp has been rubbed. Aladdin's lamp has
been rubbed by Uncle Sam, and if he 's done
all this, it 's because not one genius appeared,
[24]
THE HOLY CITY
but millions. You fellows are the genii,
Tony."
"I don't know what that may be, Mrs.
Gibbons, but we 're it all right, if you say
so."
A Cadillac passed us quickly in the other
direction. Shouts. Ai-ms waving.
"Again?" said Tony, dejected. "They're
stopping."
A long-legged fellow with a black mustache
was running back toward us.
"They want us," said Tony. "It 's a cap-
tain. You ought to get the chief M. P. to
make you out a pass and stamp it proper."
"Here you are!" said the captain. "I've
been looking all over France for you! Did
you ever get letters from me?"
"I certainly did, Whit, and answered them,
too."
"What are you doing here, Helen?"
"Spending the summer."
"Far from here?"
[26]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
"Not very. Just came from there this
morning. How long have we been, Tony?"
"An hour," said Tony.
"An hour by motor truck," said Whit. "I
can make it in half an hour. I '11 come up to
see you Sunday, if you '11 be there."
"Come for the week-end, Whit," said I,
"and make friends with my children."
"I 'U do that if you don't make them call
me Uncle, and if you let me bring Johnny
along."
"Be there Saturday afternoon then with
Johnny, whoever he is!"
"Johnny is a pal of mine, prince of a fellow,
if he did go to Princeton. You 'U like
Johnny."
"I certainly shall, but I am surprised at
you, fifteen years out of Yale ! You 're still
the kid I used to know — with that Princeton
stuff."
"Strange, isn't it, that I should have said
that. But over here we older fellows, living
[26]
THE HOLY CITY
with the youngsters, get right back where we
were in 1900."
"Come, Tony," I said, **the waiting line at
the commissary will be getting too long."
"Wait," said Whit, "why don't you lunch
with me to-day? Meet me at Marie's restau-
rant at twelve-thirty. I '11 arrange my work
so we can show you the shops this afternoon."
"Shops? What kind of shops?"
"Railroad shops, of course," said he.
"Of course," I answered. "Whitfield, you
are one of the few people I know that knew
what they were going to be from the begin-
ning. You have stuck to your choo-cJioo cars
since you wore knee-caps and hated to get your
ears washed."
"Ain't it funny," said Tony, when we
started on, "how we find old friends over here.
I 'm doin' that all the time."
"Yes, Tony," I answered. "I've called
that captain's mother Aunt Louise ever since
I can remember."
[27]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
"You sure must go with him to see the shops.
I got an early start this morning. 1 11 wait
at the commissary till you buy your stuff, and
I can take it out and leave it at the Little Gray
Home as easy as not. And it '11 save you the
trouble."
"All right, Tony," I answered. "I do
hope the Captain has his children's pictures in
his pocket. I 've never seen them."
At luncheon in the restaurant at the table
sitting next to us were two ensigns and three
second lieutenants. The restaurant girl said,
"Quel vin desirez-vous, blanc ou rouge?"
"Pas de vin."
Marie brings carafes of water and, laughing
as she puts them on the table, she says, "Du
vin Americain, alors !"
Before the American invasion, if people
limching there had refused to buy wine, Marie
would have been mystified or angry. Now
she receives with equanimity the "Pas de vin."
When Whitfield paid for the lunch, he gave
[^8]
THE HOLY CITY
Marie a hundred-franc note. While we were
waiting for the change, he said,
"My hundred-franc notes are not money to
me — they look more hke bills of lading."
"ChoO'Choo cars again."
When the captain's motor drew up in front
of the shops we saw a colored fellow riding a
mule. He was directing a detail of negro
soldiers unloading heavy triangular steel
frames for bridge building. The negro cor-
poral jumped down off the mule and saluted
the captain.
The mule was restless.
"Halt!" the corporal commanded. The
mule stopped. He walked around the mule,
and cried, "At ease!"
"Did you get that?" said the captain.
"Negro troops are an endless source of amuse-
ment to me. Nigs love paraphernalia. They
take military stuff theatrically."
"Yes," I said, "their tools are stage busi-
ness."
[29]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
"But they play their role well," said the
captain.
The negroes were carrying one of the steel
frames now.
"Git yo' shouldahs agin dat," commanded
the corporaL "You-all done tole Uncle Sam
you would. Push now, you-aU Yanks!"
"We ain't Yanks," protested one. "We 's
f'om Virginia!"
"Easy now! Mind yo' co'ns," said the cor-
poral.
The burden slipped into place on top of a
pile, and the negroes slouched along singing,
"Gawd don't have no coward soldiers in His band,
Ah 'm goin' to climb up Jacob's ladder some dese
days.
Every round goes higher en higher.
Gawd don't hev no coward soldiers in His band."
"That 's one of their working songs," said
the captain. "Heavy work, moving steel, but
they do relax between times."
We went in the office to pick up Johnny,
[30]
THE HOLY CITY
and met the colonel in charge of the stevedores,
"Been watching your black soldiers work-
ing," said I. "Listening to their talk makes
me homesick!"
"Great boys," said the colonel. "The other
night I was n't feeling very well. Dog-tired
after a hard day. Had my boy wash my feet
and give me a rub-down. A nigger makes the
best orderly in the world. There is something
of the old mammy left in many of them. I 've
seen my boy come back after he had settled me
for the night and ask, *You sick?' and when
I 'd ask him why, he would reply, "Don't
know — 'pears to me you is oneasy and too
quiet.' I was lying there and he was rubbing
my back when he broke out with :
" 'C'n'l — is dere eny chance fo' me to go to
de front ?'
" *What do you want to go to the front for,
Nelson?'
" *When Ah jined. Ah thought Ah 'd be
daid befoh dis en Ah jes well go now.'
[31]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
" 'Nelson, I 've read in the paper to-night
that the Germans cut off the ears of all col-
ored troops captured/
" 'You doan' say, sirT
"Then after a silence, quite a little interval:
" 'C'n'l, Ah wants to go anyway, dey cain't
cut um off' n all ob us.' "
Johnny was not to be found. We left a
note for him to join us later.
In the shop a locomotive body, held high in
the grip of a mighty crane, was lowered slowly
and put into place on waiting wheels. The
captain was delivering a lecture on choo-
choos,
"Got to know the laws of physics to under-
stand the load she will pull," said he, finally.
"When do you put on the stack?" I asked.
"About the last thing — smallest part. But
I suppose the most obvious to a layman."
The captain and a soldier mechanic walked
up the tracks with me to a completed engine.
A girl in grimy overalls and with a heavy ham-
[32]
THE HOLY CITY
mer in her hand passed us. The soldier
glanced around, then lagged behind to talk to
the girl.
Running to catch up with us again, the sol-
dier said,
**Captain, guess folks back home wouldn't
believe me if I told them I was in love with
the village blacksmith."
The mechanic jumped on to the engine.
"Fired up, isn't she?" asked the captain.
"2047 was put together yesterday. We '11 test
her now if you like. You may start her.
Pull this hard."
I pulled hard. 2047 glided slowly out of
the shop along the river track.
"Speed her up! Fred," said the captain.
2047 carried us swiftly out into the coun-
try.
The captain and Fred pulled levers, made
calculations, kept their eyes on the gage.
"You can ring the bell at the grade crossing,"
said the captain. "Pull this string."
[33]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
The test was finished.
"Take it easy going back to the shop," said
the captain.
"I 'm told American soldiers caD French lo-
comotives teapots," said I.
"No," replied Fred, "peanut roasters!"
"There are fewer accidents on French rail-
roads," I suggested.
"That may be, but look at their mail service.
We oil up an engine and put her in the pink
of condition, then run her like the devil to save
four hours on a mail run. Hard on the en-
gine, I grant you — but what 's wearing out
an engine if you can beat a record? Com-
petition's fierce in the U. S. A. No; the
French save the engine and lose the con-
tract."
"Let us off at the lower road, Fred," said
the captain. "I want to take Mrs. Gibbons
over to the mess to get some tea. Mind the
yard is clear for out-going engines at seven-
teen-thirty."
[34]
THE HOLY CITY
"I see you use the French time-schedule," I
remarked.
"Got to hand it to them when it comes to
their way of telling time — that and the metric
system."
The soldiers' barracks in this camp are the
oldest American barracks in France. Before
one I saw a httle dooryard. The path was
picked out with smooth cobble-stones painted
white. A soldier was sitting on the bench by
the door. We stopped a moment to speak to
him. "Why did you paint your house black?"
I asked.
"Locomotive color," answered the boy.
"Are you responsible for this pretty door-
yard?" I asked.
"Well — some," he said. "These here morn-
ing glories are camouflage — they 're to make
us think we got a garden."
We found Johnny in the officers' dining-
room.
"Don't let 's have tea here," he said. "Let 's
[35]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
run the car over to the hospital. I know a
nurse there — "
"Who will give us tea?" said Whitfield.
"Sure," answered Johnny.
We waited in the garden of the hospital for
Miss Smith to come down. We had tea at a
little table under a tree. Convalescent sol-
diers were sitting about smoking and talking.
Some strolled about sunning ugly wounds.
After tea, Whit and Johnny went back to
the shops. Miss Smith was going to a hos-
pital-train that had arrived at the railroad sta-
tion with men invalided home.
"Let 's walk over," suggested the nurse.
"One has to wait so long sometimes to get a
chance at an ambulance."
"What do you do when these trains come
in?" I asked.
"I go down when I can. There is always
something one can do, if it is only to light a
cigarette."
[36]
THE HOLY CITY
"How do the boys feel about being sent
home?" I asked.
"I see only those at our own hospital and
those on the trains that are directed to the
dock. When they first arrive at our hospital,
there is talk about going home. It is in the
air: men are sad or surly about it. Some are
bitterly opposed. When they have had the
medical examination and the decision is made,
the blow has fallen. Then comes a period of
adjustment, and when the findings of our ex-
amining committee are accepted, men go over
their little possessions. They are wondering
how much of their junk, as they call it, they
will be allowed to take along."
"What on earth do they pick out to take?"
"Souvenirs and dogs," she answered, smil-
ing. "One boy set great store by a setter he
called Liberty. He had actually brought that
dog with him from America. When he was
told he was to go to the States after his stump
[37]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
healed, — ^his leg was amputated, — ^he buried his
face in Liberty's neck and I heard him say,
'When you and I left Chicago we had a round-
trip ticket and did n't know it.' "
We mounted the hospital train, and seated
ourselves on the edge of a bunk. Two order-
lies were making up bunks at the other end of
the car. Stretcher cases were being carried
out tenderly and placed on the platform to
wait their turn. Ambulances were plying to
and fro between the station and the docks.
A Y. M. C. A. entertainer with a lovely
contralto voice was singing. A soldier was
singing with her. The loss of his right arm
had not changed the quality of his tenor voice.
Experience had worked hope.
"You see how they are," said the nurse,
drawing her blue cape about her, "once they
know their bit is done, they sing. If a man is
booked to leave with a certain transport, and at
the last minute his sailing has to be delayed a
week, his heart is broken. We had to post a
[38]
THE HOLY CITY
sign on the door to the oj05ce where the lists
are made up :
"If you want to wait two weeks longer to go home
— come in and ask us if your name is on the list for
to-morrow's boat."
I stepped into the next coach where men
were waiting for the stretcher bearers.
**I had a pal," said one. "We used to go
to dances together in Denver. He '11 never
dance again, that bird. Right leg shot off —
was with the Marines up the line. He sailed
with the last bunch."
"Was he glad to go home?" I put in.
''Was he glad! Better than staying here
in France, planted in the ground and wearing
a wooden kimono I"
"I ain't glad," said another. "I'd rather go
and bump off a few more Dutchmen than go
home now."
"Won't you be glad when there 's no more
corn-willy?" said I.
[39]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
"Corn-willy won't kill a soldier," laughed the
boy, "but listen, we fed some to a dog. He
went over, planked down, and finir
"Corn- willy hasn't been popular in your
outfit since then?"
"No, ma'am! We all felt catchy after that,
I 'U tell the world."
Two streams meet at the Holy City. The
incoming stream, thousands of troops debark-
ing every week, brings victory. When our
boys arrive, they look so young. I have be-
come accustomed in France, during four long
years, to fresh faces with the light of youth
in their eyes, but yet with the indelible traces
of suffering. The smile of the new-comers
gives me courage sorely needed. To see them
is more than a sparkling vision of home. It
is the assurance that the future is good.
Does not the outgoing stream carry back
to America also victory? There are scars,
regrets for pals, but a new vision of life. No
man that goes down into the shadow of the
[40]
THE HOLY CITY
valley of death is the same afterwards.
Broken bodies, wrecked nerves, you say? —
Ahl — but tempered souls. The message they
bear in their bodies is a message of triumph.
They, who have paid the price, are the van-
guard of the returning victors. Vanguard of
the victorious A. E. F. — in both directions!
[41]
CHAPTER IV
A STEAM ROLLER
It Was a rainy day, so the children could not
play in the garden. They settled themselves
in my study. We had been reading Dotty
Dimple stories since lunch. The wind blew
the door open.
"Close it quickly, Christine," I cried, "be-
fore mother's papers fly everywhere."
"Oh, Mama," said she, "there 's a soldier
looking in our gate."
"Get an umbrella, dear, and run out to see
if he wants something."
In a few minutes she returned, leading a
huge, tall fellow by the hand.
"Hello!" said I, and shook hands vrith him.
"Come right over and put your name in my
[42]
A STEAM ROLHER
guest-book. It bothers me to get well started
making friends with people and then find I
don't know their names. First your name on
this line, please, with your rank and army
post-office address. Then on the next line the
name of some woman: mother, sister, wife, or
sweetheart. Some day soon I 'D write her a
letter, saying you are well and cheerful, and
send your love."
"Lady, I didn't want to bother nobody,"
he said slowly. "I was lookin' for a drink.
This ain't no cafe." He was putting on his
hat again.
"I — I did n't want to bother nobody."
"But you 're not bothering me, my dear boy.
I can give you a drink. What will you have?
Some cider? Maybe you 'd rather take a cup
of hot coffee."
"It Mowed the breath clean out of me when
this little miss came out there and told me to
come in and see her mama. I wondered if
I was dreaming and had-a got back home
[43]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
some way. The little girl spoke good Ameri-
can."
"I did n't hear a truck — are you traveling
on foot?" I asked.
"No, ma'am, we 're a crew of three runnin'
a steam roller. We 're headed for the hos-
pital at Savenay. Goin' to do road building
with the Blank Teenth Engineers."
"Where are the others?"
"They 're bringin' the roller. It 's goin'
slow up the hill. I came on ahead. We been
lookin' for some boovette where we could hawl
up a while and get a drink to wash down our
lunch."
"My soul, it 's after one and you have n't
had lunch!" I exclaimed.
"No, ma'am. Say, come on out with me,
lady, and give my pals apoplexy like you did
me.
Patrick waved to the boys on the steam rol-
ler. They had just got to the top of the hill
and could come a little faster now. The en-
[44]
A STEAM ROLLER
gine stopped coughing with one final hiccough.
The big wheels buried themselves comfortably
in the mud.
"Sandy, my boy," cried Patrick, "ye '11
never believe what I 'm goin' to tell ye now.
This lady is an American."
"Just as American as you are," said I.
"How-do-you-do." I shook hands with
Sandy.
"Are you Irish, too, like Patrick and me?"
I asked the engineer, who was closing the
furnace door. He lifted his grimy head and
looked at me solemnly.
"No, put I vish I vasl"
"Aw, go-awn, Heiny," said Sandy, patting
the engineer's shoulder. "You 're as good an
American as Uncle Sammy ever slapped into
imiform."
"Patrick tells me you have had no lunch," I
began.
"And I told ye, too, I did n't want to bother
nobody, mind that!" cried Patrick.
[45]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
"What were you going to have for lunch?"
I enquired.
"A tin of goldfish, a couple of onions, and
some bread," said Heiny.
"Leave the goldfish and onions where they
are. Bring the bread along — I 'm short of
that," said I.
We left the steam roller and walked across
the road. Sandy opened the gate and let me
pass through first.
"I know'd you was an American," said he,
beaming.
"Yes," said Patrick, "and she 's got a bunch
of kids in there that when you look at them, you
don't know whether to laugh or to cry. Gits a
fellow on his soft side," he went on; "that baby
is a humdinger."
Four little faces were flattened against the
window-pane and laughing eyes peered out
through wet waving ivy.
"How does this country strike you?" I
asked.
[46]
A STEAM ROLLER
"I 'm like the *shine' — stevedore he was —
who said: *Ef I owned dis country I 'd give
it to the Kaiser and 'pologise fo' de condition
it 's in/ " said Sandy.
"I like it fine," protested Patrick. "These
French ain't ugly — they 're real friendly, real
fried easy goin'. They 're Frogs, see?"
"If you gentlemen would like to wash off
some of that coal dust — "
**Vell, I vas chust vorryin' about dot some.
I vos sayin' to m'self how are ve a-goin' to git
avay mit dem dirty faces. Ve ain't in your
class."
"That 's nothing, how can you work around
a steam roller and not get black?" I brought
them hot water from the kitchen and showed
them the comfort bags. It was just a fancy
of mine that gave me the keenest possible pleas-
ure to put my best center-piece and napkins
for these boys. It was the cook's day off, and
when the boys reappeared, I had put together
a good little luncheon.
[47]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
*'The dining-room is this way," I said.
"Aw, don't put us in the dining-room,"
remonstrated Patrick. "We belong in the
kitchen."
I turned on him. "If the Germans were in-
vading this valley," I said, "you would n't let
them catch me and my children if you could
help it, would you?"
"There 'd be three more dead Yanks first!"
said Patrick.
"Pet y'r poots der vood!" corroborated
Heiny.
"Then hush your fuss and sit down. Noth-
ing 's too good for you boys!"
[48]
CHAPTER V
A CORPORAL
"Any mail?" The corporal shut the juice
off his machine, swung a long leg around the
saddle, and stood smiling at my gate.
"Come in till I write the address on the en-
velope," I answered.
The corporal stops every morning. The
letters I give him get a twenty-four hours'
start on the French facteur, who travels on
foot.
"Saw a Ford car in a ditch below here.
Couple of Frogs in it. Lucky they didn't
get hurt. They got theirs for coming on our
road. That 's funny, too. Queer how a fel-
low gets to thinking this place belongs to us.
Gee I ain't we going to have a bee-utif ul mix-up
[49]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
when we have to straighten up whose is which.
For instance, that there reclaimed land be-
tween here and the sea — whose is it? Ameri-
can soldiers have already won territory with-
out seein' a living bullet. All them boys had
to fight was plain water. One thing sure these
French never would of used that land tiU
Kingdom Come. Whose is it, I say? An-
swer me that, Mrs. Gibbons ! Why, it belongs
to Uncle Sam. The Blank Teenth Engineers
got it for the old boy."
"What I don't see," commented Christine,
"is why Uncle Sam sends all his boys over here
and never comes himself. Do you ever use
your pistol?" she went on, as the despatch rider
put his coat on a study chair.
"Ever use that?" he exclaimed. "Guess I
did! And gosh darn fast. Killed plenty of
Germans up at Shato-Theery, but I was no
despatch rider then. Where are your ciga-
rettes?"
"Here in the basket," I answered, as I pulled
[50]
A CORPORAL
the steamer chair around to the fireplace. "Sit
down and have your smoke. The other day
you had got to the place where you heard you
were to go to the front."
"We was in the trenches at Montdidier when
that word came. That was on the fourteenth
of July. We rolled our packs and waited till
the fellows came up to relieve us. They come
about nine o'clock and we shifted rehef s. We
went out of them trenches back to a little town
where they inspected our equipment. Gave
us two more boxes of hardtack and an extra can
of corn-willy. Also an extra pair of shoes.
We piled on trucks. They took us close to
the third line. We left the trucks and started
to hike. Marched till daylight. And we were
then where we could see German observation
balloons. We rested that day and stayed un-
der cover. As soon as it got dark, we started
again. Marched all night, passing tanks —
French tanks — and machine-gun battalions.
At five minutes to four we came to a little town.
[51]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
We were told that we was to give Fritz a whip-
pin' that morning. We were close behind our
first lines. Everything was quiet. It was
raining.
"Two large guns opened on each end and
one small one in the middle. The earth
started tremblin', and it became light as day.
Five minutes after the barrage was on, we
went over the top. Just as I was going, the
cap. told me I was now a corporal. The
German outposts threw up their hands, and
we took them prisoners. We passed them
and went on where we could see the German
first lines. Found the Germans standing on
top of the parapets with their hands up in the
air. We took them prisoners and got their
second line. The Germans opened fire on us
from machine-guns put up in trees. The
tanks came and shot 'em out. Gee! Them
Germans dropped like squirrels. I walked
along with a machine-gun. When we
reached their third line, they were tryin' to
[52]
A CORPORAL
get out. 'T ain't no good taking prisoners
and splitting grub with them. We put a ma-
chine-gun at the end of a trench and began
shootin' 'em down — pihn' 'em up — till the
lieutenant came over and told us to take
prisoners.
"Behind that third line the Germans had
their stores. I crawled in a window — they was
all packin' in there — and I got two pair of
socks, two pair of shoes, a belt, and two pistols.
Our officers chased us out, so we started look-
ing around to see what else we could find.
Went down into a dug-out — German officers'
dug-out — where we found a chest with a pad-
lock on it. We kicked the lock off. In there
were two cases of beer and two jugs of rum."
"Good beer?"
"You bet — lager beer. Couldn't be beat.
We each drank a bottle of beer. Tapped the
jugs of rum, filled two canteens, and drank the
remainder.
"Feelin' pretty good, we went out after
[63]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
more Dutchmen. Ducked down into a dug-
out to get away from German barrage — and let
our barrage go on over. Saw a German lieu-
tenant laying below on a cot with a hole in his
leg. I went down the stairs, and when I come
to the door he had a pistol pulled on me. He
snapped it, but it did not go off. Afraid he 'd
try again. So I took my forty-five and
tapped him real gently on the head. I did n't
aim to hit him so hard, but I put him over the
Big Divide. I took his watch, his pistol, his
ring with his name on it, and two hundred and
seventy Dutch marks which I still have in my
possession, also the shell he snapped at me.
"It was beginning to get dark then. We
advanced to a swamp close to a little town held
by the Germans. We took some hand-gren-
ades after dark to scare Fritz in the town.
We were in bunches of very small numbers.
Whenever we found any Germans, we handed
them a hand-grenade and run back to our fel-
lows.
[54]
A CORPORAL
"We stood at alert — that 's standing with
your pack on your back ready for action —
can't go to sleep. I was n't thinkin' much of
sleep up there any time. That was till day-
light on the nineteenth. My automatic rifle
was shot in two. The barrel was shot off while
I was carryin' the thing, by a piece of high ex-
plosive. Got a bit rammed into my thumb,
and another over my eye. By this time we
had their artillery. American gunners were
using it on the Dutchmen. Our artillery was
moved up too."
"How does our artillery compare with
theirs?"
"We can shoot ten to their one. Oh, you
mean the French ? About the same, only we're
a httle faster.
"Went down the road towards the first-aid
station. Heard a shell coming, and I laid
down on the road. Hit eight feet from me.
Had a time-fuse on. Buried itself in the
ground. I felt myself a-going. When I
[65]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
come to, I was in a wheat field fifty feet from
the road."
"How did you feel?"
"Pretty dizzy. I crawled to where the
wounded were being evacuated by the aid of
the Dutch prisoners. Oh, gee, they was all
shot up! But yet cheerful, wishing they
had n't 'a' got hurt, so they could have went on
further.
"I took my forty-five in my hand and called
two Dutchmen over to help me. My back and
legs was sore from hitting the ground. Be-
fore reaching the aid station we came to a
valley where we could see gas hanging over
the grain. We could smell it — like mustard,
it was — or rather mustard and horse-radish.
When we got into the gas a ways, it began
to burn my throat. My mask had three bullet-
holes through it, I kept it over my eyes, but
my throat and lungs felt burning and I could
hardly talk.
"They kept sending me further and further
[56]
A CORPORAL
back, and finally I came to this base hospital.
I Feeling pretty good through the day. That
gas seems to take your breath worse at night.
I went to the garage and got a job. Now I 'm
riding despatch service on an Indian motor-
cycle. Expect to return to my company soon
and thank Fritz for his compliments. I
have a real lot of love for him. Wanted to
send me back to the States — but I won't go
till the other fellows do."
"There was another time, wasn't there?
You got gassed or something?"
"Yes — gas. Got that dose in May when
we was standing to in the trenches. Eyes
swelled shut and burnt like fire. They wanted
me to help at the field hospital — tinker around
digging one thing and another. I beat it —
you can do more in the trenches."
"How did you get back?"
"Ambulance going up the line — got on.
Found my outfit just as they were fixing to
go over the top. Put in a hitch of twenty-two
[57]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
days till we were relieved. *It 's a great life
if you don't weaken.' Heavy on that 'weaken'
part. I would n't give up my experience for
one thousand dollars — and I wouldn't give
two cents to go through it again."
[58]
CHAPTER VI
THEY COME
"Are you a college woman?"
The night train from Paris had brought me
to Brest. I was having my breakfast with
the Y. M. C. A. secretary.
"Why?"
"I was wondering if you could do stunts with
traveling rings?"
"Yes, I am a college woman," I answered,
"and I did gym like everybody else, but it was
a long time ago."
"It 's not as bad as that," laughed the secre-
tary. "There 's a transport coming in, and
I had a hunch that I 'd like to take you out to
meet it. Put you up in the rigging and have
you speak to the soldiers. American woman
[59]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
giving them a glad howdy! Eh what, come
onl"
"Great!" I exclaimed.
We slid down hill in a Ford and were soon
flying out to the roadstead beyond the fort.
Our launch reached the Past oris just after her
anchor went overboard. Blue-clad sailors
were shouting, and winding ropes in wet coils.
"Look at the khaki swarming all over that
boat," said the secretary. "So many that you
wonder why a bunch of landlubbers like that
would n't fall into the water, half of 'em."
"Oh, look !" said I. "They 're sending down
a ladder!"
"Yes, but red tape and paper work will be
going on, and there won't be a soldier putting
his foot on dry land to-day. My, soul! get on
to the fellows looking at you through opera
glasses!"
"Hello, boys!" I cried, when I reached the
gangway.
[60]
THEY COME
"She's American!" said a soldier, who was
straddhng the bow of a lifeboat.
The transport gave a mighty cheer. The
secretary hurried me forward. The boys
crowded onto the deck, but fell back to make
way for us. One touched my sleeve. An-
other wanted to shake hands. On the bridge
the captain greeted me.
"First person to board our ship in this for-
eign land. God bless you!"
The deck below was solid khaki. Faces all
turned our way.
"Now — " said the secretary, "traveling
rings !" Below a break in the bridge-rail hung
a rope ladder. "Catch your heels in this
round. Steady now!"
"Sing, boys!" I cried, "'Keep the Home
Fires Burning.' "
They did a verse, and the chorus twice.
I began to speak.
"When I make a sea voyage and landing day
[61]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
comes, my mind flies back to the sailing day.
You have just sung, * Though your boys are
far away they dream of home.' You are think-
ing of the loved ones you left. We cannot
replace them. But you are not alone in this
strange land. You have friends. The
French people have been waiting a long time
for you. In Paris and everywhere are Ameri-
cans. Our homes are yours. You won't go
anywhere without seeing us. And the
French — " I went on to tell them how France
had suffered and kept at it against all odds,
and what the coming of the Americans means
to the French.
When it was over, I went aft and repeated
the greeting to the boys on the deck there.
I settled myself in a lifeboat to chat and
hand out cigarettes and chocolate.
"Our food hasn't been so bad," said one
soldier. "Third day out they started serving
coffee and sandwiches to the guards."
"Was it good?" I inquired.
[62]
THEY COME
"Good? You bet! I 'd have given all the
money I had and half my clothes for a loaf of
that bread. After that everybody on the ship
was the guard."
Another boy wanted cigarettes.
"Did you get seasick?" I asked.
"No, ma'am. Occasionally got a little dizzy.
My first duty on the water was in the crow's-
nest. Spent my birthday up there. The
lieutenant with me got seasick, though.
Could n't sit up. Two sailors had to come and
tie a rope around him and carry him right
down."
A petty officer helped me undo bundles.
"Americans have changed from tourists into
crusaders," said I.
"The one result they may not have thought
about," responded the Jackie, "is the change
that is going to come over them. New scenes
and new experiences; why, travel is an educa-
tion."
"Yes, indeed," I answered; "a year of sol-
[68]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
diering abroad will be worth a year of school-
ing to them."
"I '11 never forget my first cruise," said the
Jackie. "That was to the Near East."
"I 've been in Turkey," said I. '*We were
in Mersina during the massacres of 1909.
Battleships in the harbor — two of them were
American — used to play their searchlights
along the sea-wall and it was funny when
searchlights would focus on a group of Turks.
They would disperse in terror — thought it was
the Evil Eye."
"That beats all!" exclaimed the Jackie. "I
was the man behind the searchlight on the
North Carolinar
The soldiers were landed in launches, and
formed in line on the dock. When a couple of
thousand Americans started up the hill, the
secretary and I accompanied them in the Ford.
They had improvised an orchestra to lead off.
Banjos played "Hail, Hail, the Gang's all
Here." One soldier, who looked like a pro-
[64]
THEY COME
fessor, was mopping the perspiration off his
forehead with one hand and with the other was
holding three books. Comfort bags, made of
gay-colored cretonne, were strmig up to Sam
Brown belts. A whisk-broom lashed to a pack
was bobbing along. One youngster had two
toothbrushes in his hatband.
We had picked up a boy en route who
was n't feeling well, and had brought him with
us in our motor. At the railroad station I
found the French poste de secours and asked
the poilus in there to look after their new com-
rade. They spread his bedding-roll on the
bench, and he gave them cigarettes.
A train of cattle-cars was waiting for the
regiment.
"Say," said a doughboy, "do you think the
French sentinel would let me look at his gun?"
**Surely," I answered; "just go and ask
him. He '11 be tickled to death to show you."
I left the two, each chattering away in his
own tongue, over the way the gun worked.
[65]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
One soldier, — he was at least six feet, six
inches tall, — whelped me carry a basket of ap-
ples over to the train. I gave the first apple,
a rosy-cheeked one, to the officer who was di-
recting the embarkment.
"This man is helping me," I said to the offi-
cer; "isn't he a dear?"
"Yes," said he, "when Bill gets his growth,
he will be such a help to his colonel."
"That officer is the most successful in the
crowd," said Bill as we moved on to the next
car, " 'cause he can say a thing like that."
The engine whistle was blowing. The men
hurried to find places in the train.
"Good-by, good-by," I cried.
"Don't say good-by," said one. "We 're
coming back again. Say *Good luck!' "
From the last car negro soldiers sang back at
me:
**Good morning, Mr. Kaiser, Uncle Sammie 's on de
firin' line,
Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust,
[66]
THEY COME
Ef de French mens cain' drive yu de 'Mericans must,
So good morning, Mr. Kaiser, Uncle Sammie 's on de
firin',
Uncle Sammie 's on de firin'. Uncle Sammie 's on de
firin' line !"
When the train disappeared, the M. P. at
the station and I had coffee together at the
buvette. The M. P. insisted on paying for
both.
"How about her?" he said, pointing to the
pretty French girl who served us. "I give her
a quarter," — he held out his hand full of cop-
pers,— "and she gives me back a fistful of
baggage-checks."
[67]
CHAPTER VII
DECORATION DAY
In Paris this spring the telephone rang one
morning. An aviator from Philadelphia,
A W , was speaking. I asked him
to lunch. At noon, when the children heard
the elevator climbing to our floor, they ran to
open the door. They fell upon their new
soldier and dragged him into the drawing-
room to see mother. When he could get his
arm free from Lloyd's friendly grasp, he held
out flowers to me and started to introduce
himself. But his eye lit on the Steinway.
Formal greeting stopped right there. His
overcoat slipped off on the bench as he wriggled
arms out of the sleeves. He began to play,
and I could sense the problems of adjustment
to the new life, longing for home, the thrill of
[68]
DECORATION DAY
the first flight. The children had dropped to
the floor, where they sat under the spell of the
new friend's music. Not until he remembered
letters sent in our care did the aviator come
down out of the clouds. He excused himself.
There was no piano in the camp — and that had
been his whole life before he entered the army.
He just could not resist.
A fortnight later, A W followed
many of his friends who
Passed like the Archangels,
Trailing robes of flame.
The meaning of Decoration Day had be-
come remote to Americans of my generation.
But in 1918 it is born anew in us with the ful-
ness our fathers and mothers experienced, and
flags and flowers on soldiers' graves are once
more a poignant and tender duty.
Decoration Day — until now a strange phrase
that brought nothing to minds of my children.
During the past year they have been finding
[69]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
out vitally what it means to be Americans.
This lesson had to be added to others.
An ambulance came for us. When we
reached the little Brittany village, our soldiers
were drawn up in marching order before the
main entrance of the lycee, which is the kernel
of the great hospital city to be built here. The
band, imported from a camp fifty kilometers
away, was taking its place at the head of the
line. Silver instruments flashed back the sun-
shine of a day more like crisp October than the
heat of a May thirtieth at home. The officers
swung in after the band. Lloyd whispered,
"My, what a lot of majors!"
Muffled strains of Chopin's funeral march.
The procession moved forward — not too rap-
idly for little feet.
A meadow has been set aside for the Ameri-
can cemetery. As we found places near the
flag-draped platform, I heard the sweet call of
the cuckoo. Gentle hills and rich farm lands,
dotted with thatched cottages and windmills,
[70]
DECORATION DAY
stretched to where the horizon meets the ocean.
Then I saw the rows of white wooden crosses
newly painted. At the foot of each grave were
bunches of poppies, flaming symbols of sleep,
nodding in the soft May breeze as if wafting
a message of comfort down to the shore of
the ocean and across the waves to America.
The older children were looking toward the
platform, Lloyd with rapt eyes and a little
hand bravely held to the temple in correct
salute, Christine placid and expectant. Mimi
sat on the colonel's overcoat, beside a French
playmate. Colette decapitated daisies and
piled them on Mimi's lap. This is America's
day.
The speeches began. The French general
in command of the region told how blue and
khaki were marching together to battle. The
Consul-General from the City of the Edict
read the President's proclamation in French
and English. The American Protestant chap-
lain said that he had known these dear boys
[71]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
beside whose graves we stood. They died as
they had hved — courageous, steadfast, willing
to make the sacrifice. The American Catholic
chaplain, born in France of French parents,
prayed in the language of his childhood. As
five hundred years ago, he said, Joan, the
Maid of France, who should have known only
peace, followed the vision which led to the
salvation of France, to-day Young America
had left the pursuits of peace to save France.
The mayor's speech was a message to the moth-
ers of fallen American heroes. The soil of his
native Brittany would be to these precious
earthly remains as a mother cradling her chil-
dren.
The band played "Nearer, my God, to
Thee." There surged up in my heart the
words of the homesick psalmist, "How can we
sing the Lord's song in a strange land?"
The nurses broke ranks slowly. They came
across the grass, their arms filled with butter-
cups and daisies and wild roses.
[72]
DECORATION DAY
"Jesus, Lover of my soul." . . . "Lead,
kindly light." . . . We must sing these songs
for you, mothers of the soldier boys that have
died in France. The line of khaki took posi-
tion beside the graves. I could not see more.
Taps sounded. The salute was fired.
This evening I made a blaze of fagots in my
bedroom chimney. The little folk gathered
around me to talk over the events of the day
while they undressed.
"Was n't it good of them to ask us to come
to the base hospital to see Decoration Day?"
observed Christine.
"Yes," said Lloyd, "and didn't our am-
bulance go fast?"
"You and all those nurses did cry, Mama,"
declared Mimi, "but I didn't. I liked the
band and the soldiers and the daisies."
[78]
CHAPTER VIII
HOW I TEAVEL
I had been visiting my brother, who's a
shavetail in the artillery school at Angers.
Sunday morning I went to the police station
to get my paper stamped for the return trip.
I poked it through the arch-shaped hole in the
chicken-wire grating that fenced off a slice of
the room.
"What is this thing?" asked the police offi-
cer, from his leather-cushioned chair back of
the chicken-wire.
"My sauf conduit" I answered. "I got it
in my village below Savenay."
"What village?"
"Prinquiau."
"Is that in Loire-Inferieure?"
[74]
HOW I TRAVEL
"Yes."
He picked up a little book with grubby
curves for corners, and with a horny thumb-
nail pushed back the paper till he got to the
Pr's.
"Prinquiau," he grunted. "You have a
permis de sejour, madame?"
"Yes."
"Well, it has blanks to be filled in and
stamped when you want to make a journey."
"They were all used up with visas and signa-
tures permitting other journeys," I replied.
"I travel a lot. Here it is. You can see for
yourself."
"Why didn't the maire take sticky paper
and add an annex sheet?"
"He told me he had no annex sheets."
"This sauf conduit isn't worth the paper
it 's printed on," shouted the policeman, ris-
ing from his chair and stamping up and down.
Another officer sitting on another leather-
backed chair behind an arched hole in the
[75]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
chicken-wire was reading a newspaper. He
noticed us.
"What is the matter, Jacques?" he said.
Jacques had the sauf conduit in one hand;
he slapped it with the hack of the other. "This
is no good!" he cried.
Turning to me, he continued, "This paper
ought to have had the stamp of our mihtary
poHce and the American pohce. How did you
buy your ticket at Savenay?"
"They do not ask me for papers at Sa-
venay. They know me there. The paper 's
no good, of course, if you say so," I agreed
with him.
"You 've no right to go back at all!" shouted
Jacques. "What do you want to go to Sa-
venay for, any way; tell me that?"
"I 've rented a chateau near there for the
summer," I answered. "My four babies are
there."
"Madame has other papers?" asked the sec-
ond policeman.
[76]
HOW I TRAVEL
I opened my handbag and got out the other
papers and put them through the hole.
"Can I go home on any of these?"
Jacques and the second poHceman looked
them over one by one.
"This paper is from a committee, you see,
that represents the army and the navy of
the United States." I pointed to the letter-
head.
"Ah, but your sauf conduit was a mistake,"
cried Jacques, walking up and down again.
"We don't issue this kind any more. The
maire of your village ought to have known
that!"
"Sure, he ought," I replied. "But, Mon-
sieur, there are not enough first-class fellows
like you to handle big places like Angers and
villages like Prinquiau, too — "
The second policeman shot me a look. I
thought his eye twinkled.
I had my cigarette case in my hand. I had
taken it out when I got the papers. Opening
[77]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
it, I slid my arm through the arched hole in
the chicken-wire.
"Do these gentlemen smoke?" I asked.
They helped themselves. I took back my
cigarette case, crossing it with a box of
matches. Matches and cigarettes — both lux-
uries these days and not to be found in An-
gers. Jacques and the second policeman
lighted up. "This paper — " began Jacques.
"Yes, the paper," said I. "How can we
make it take me home to my babies?"
Jacques took a long puff at his cigarette,
cleared his throat, and spat.
"Madame," said he, "you're deaf, aren't
you?"
"Yes, I'm deaf."
"And I am blind?"
"Yes, Monsieur Jacques, you are blind."
"What we are going to do now," said he,
"did n't happen."
"Did n't happen," I agreed.
"There is no pen on my desk and no ink in
[78]
HOW I TRAVEL
the stand, but Madame will take this paper and
underneath where it says 'permit to go to An-
gers,' she will write" (a pause and his pen
scratched), "the words I have written as a
model on this paper."
The words were : ''Et retour — and return."
I wrote them, and handed the sauf conduit
back to Jacques. He closed his thumb down
on the two new words and blurred them, nod-
ding his head approvingly. Then he affixed
the precious stamp, without which I could not
have bought my railroad ticket.
[79]
CHAPTER IX
A NEW POILU NEXT DOOR
I had been dining at the engineers' mess.
The chief nurse, the chaplain and one of the
doctors climbed into the motor with me and
came out to the Little Gray Home for the
ride. A hospital train arrived yesterday-
morning, and the day had been twenty-five
hours long.
The colonel's chauflfeur left small head and
tail lights burning on the Packard and came
into the house with the others. We got
candles, and were about to sit down in the
drawing-room when the governess beckoned
to me from the hall.
"Madame Benoistel's mother sent over for
you. The baby is coming."
The doctor hurried over with me to my
[80]
A NEW POILU NEXT DOOR
neighbor's cottage. The chauffeur took the
others back to the hospital. As we parted
from them at the gate the doctor told the
chauffeur to bring out his emergency kit.
The cottage has two doors. One takes you
from the road into the bedroom. The Doctor
had to duck his head to go through the other
door into the dark kitchen. Grandmother
shouted to us to come in. She laughed hys-
terically when I stepped on the cat in the half
light, then wiped away the tears with a yellow
plaid handkerchief. She slipped out of her
wooden sabots, and paddled around in stock-
ing feet.
"My shppers, oh, my slippers, Yvonne,
Yvonne," she called crossly. Then, smiling
again, she shook hands with the doctor and me.
"Oh, dear Madame," she went on, "I am an
old peasant woman! I 'm a simple old thing!
In French we say, 'Vieille bonne femme/ A
widow these twenty-seven years, killed with
work on this farm," waving her hands. She
[81]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
dug into a pasteboard box on the window-sill,
hurriedly sorting papers. "I did right by my
children," she went on. "Joseph is my son. I
made a priest of him. There 's his picture and
his Croix de Guerre. He is in a hospital at
Marseilles. He must walk with crutches all
his life. Ah! Monsieur le Major, this is his
last letter. You may read it." She passed
over to monsieur le major sl paper ruled in
little squares and covered with fine writing in
purple ink.
"Yvonne, my daughter, Yvonne!" she
shouted.
Grandmother was standing again now.
She lifted the copper kettle off the tripod,
poured in more water, and put it back.
"Yvonne is the youngest," she said. "I
made a midwife of her. It cost me two hun-
dred and fifty francs a month besides her
clothes. The hospital gave her food. Ah!
the misery of being left with children, a widow
on a farm."
[82]
A NEW POILU NEXT DOOR
From the next room there was heard the
sound of some one patting a pillow. Grand-
mother started and listened. "The poor little
thing," she murmured. The bedroom door
opened and Yvonne appeared. "Yvonne, my
daughter, thou must remember that thy mother
is old and stiff. My slippers, my slippers,
quick!"
Yvonne shook hands with us quietly.
"Mother," she said, "you've been talking so
fast you have not yet thanked madame for
coming, and you should tell monsieur le major
that we are thankful." She straightened
Grandmother's white cap.
"I 'm an old bonne femme that could not
have the education she gave her children. The
friends will forgive."
I Yvonne, young and slender, found the slip-
pers and put them on her mother. She took
I my coat and hat and laid them on one of the
I two high, closely curtained beds that had their
squat feet set heavily on the black mud floor.
[83]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
"My poor Emilie, I 've always spoiled her.
She has the best education of all. She is a
schoolmistress at Nantes. She has never done
a stroke of work on the farm. I let her get
away from me to the city. Yvonne is the only
one that helps me, the only one that can work.
We have been getting in the hay to-day —
and now this — "
"We must take madame and the doctor to
Emilie now," Yvonne said gently.
The bedroom was whitewashed. A wooden
dough-tray, with a coarse linen cloth doubled in
it, stood on two chairs. On a table were medi-
cines and baby clothes. Mademoiselle Yvonne
opened the doors of the black wardrobe. In-
side were piles of linen. We devoted ourselves
to Emilie. At midnight grandmother, who
had been dozing, stirred and went to the
kitchen. In a few minutes she shouted for
madame to bring the major, who must be
hungry. We slipped on to the waxed benches
on either side of the long table. The copper
[84]
A NEW POILU NEXT DOOR
kettle had been lifted off the tripod. Above
the level of our heads the overhanging hood of
the fireplace swallowed into its sooty throat the
steam from the caldron. The stone platform
on which the fire lay was wider than I am tall.
On the tripod, a smaller kettle simmered over
a sleepy fire. Granny and Yvonne were put-
ting bowls on the table and pouring steaming
chocolate into them.
**AhI this is good," said Grandmother.
Over a copper ladle she held the mouth of a
bottle. "Ask the major," she requested,
*'how much rum he likes in his chocolate."
"Break it to her gently that American doc-
tors don't drink rum when they are on a case."
Grandmother put on her specs and looked
at me and then at the doctor. "Impossible,
impossible !" she cried.
Yvonne saw that we were not joking.
"Mother, thou must not press them. It is not
polite." Grandmother was offended.
"Come, Grand'mere/' said I, "I will take a
[85]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
little to please you if you put away that ladle
and get a teaspoon."
Yvonne gave us homespun napkins. Mine
felt cold and damp on my lap, and I was glad
to drink the chocolate. Grandmother cut
slices of bread. She held the loaf under her
left arm, which was just long enough to reach
around it. She drew her knife toward her
through the loaf. We watched her, marvel-
ing at the steady, accustomed stroke that
peeled off half a yard of bread in long ellip-
tical slices. On a plate near the candle was
butter. It had been pressed down firmly into
a dish and then turned out, a tempting little
mountain. Crescent-shaped markings, like
stripes of calico or chicken tracks in sand, had
been made across it with the end of a fork.
"In America, do you have butter and farm-
houses of stone and moires in the villages and
stories about the Hebrew children eating
manna or Joan of Arc leading troops — Uke
us?"
[86]
A NEW POILU NEXT DOOR
"Oh, yes," answered the doctor. "And
windmills and hospitals and railroad trains and
babies — just like you," he added kindly.
The doctor has an exclusive practice in
New York where he mends the digestion of
wealthy ladies and gifted authoresses. He sat
polishing his shell-rimmed spectacles with a
fine linen handkerchief while he diverted
grandmother by describing New York and
skyscrapers. I rose to go back to Emilie.
"Can you beat her face? She doesn't be-
lieve half I 'm teUing her. Is n't she trying
hard?"
The doctor's university French and the
practised patience that comes from long years
of treating the whims of people who are not ill
had conmiunicated to grandmother the sense
of leisure. She folded her arms and sat there,
satisfied that her Emilie was having the best
of care.
The baby, a bonny boy, came at eleven. I
gave him a bath in the dough-tray. Sympathy
[87]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
and hope for future reform made me yield to
agitated relatives. I swaddled him in a mail'
lot. Granny had been wringing her hands
and wailing that Emilie was going to die. She
calmed down now and handed me the chemise,
brassiere, and lange, one after another. I took
the baby to his mother to ask his name. For
a few minutes all she could say was, "How
ugly he is !"
"Sell him to me, then," I cried. "Come on
now. Tell me his name!"
Emilie pondered. Then she spoke slowly:
"Georges, because I like it. Yves for his
father. Helene for you, Madame. What is
the first name of monsieur le major?"
"Edmond," said monsieur le major,
"Edmond," repeated Emilie, "and Marie
for the blessed Virgin."
Georges Yves Helene Edmond Marie was
baptised next day in the Prinquiau church.
When the curate came to my name he scratched
his old head. Courtesy would not allow him
[88]
A NEW POILU NEXT DOOR
to bar it out. Helene appears in the Saints'
Calendar and is therefore a decent name; and
then, had not the husband of la dame du
chateau given him fifty francs for the village
poor? The curate settled it by lopping the
final "e" off. "Helen," he said, "is the mas-
cuhne form."
Grandmother came over that evening with
the pink bags of almond candy that French
people give to their friends on the baptismal
day, and chickens, two for me and two for
monsieur le major.
[89]
CHAPTER X
HE LEARNED HIS FEENCH FROM A
LAUNDRESS
When I entered the office of the shop where
motor ambulances are assembled, the sergeant
and the lieutenant were checking up material.
"May I see the work here?" I asked.
''Oh, good!" cried the lieutenant, "and
come up to the mess to lunch afterward.
There is just time."
The sergeant was a master of arts with a
serious mouth. Back of his glasses was a
twinkle.
Said he : "Here 's a pencil and paper. To
fix this right I 'm going to let you hear what
the boys really say. Come on."
He hurried me past the time-clock, where
[90]
FRENCH FROM A LAUNDRESS
the soldiers stick peg-nails in holes to mark
themselves In or Out as in a factory back
home. Knocked-down motor parts lay on the
floor. Shiny metal tracks made long lines
the length of the building. There was steady
hammering everywhere. For the boys obey
their slogan posted on the wall: "Don't kill
the Kaiser with your tongue. Use your tools."
The Sergeant laid his hand on the shoulder of
a private who had a hammer in one hand and a
board in the other.
"This lady is a French journalist. She's
come to visit the shop. Got to get busy here
and give her the right impression."
I gasped.
"She wants to know if she can get a box to
sit down."
While the box was being found, the sergeant
asked the boy with the hammer how long he
had been on the Border.
"Try your Spanish on her," said he.
"Can't get away with it," replied the ham-
[91]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
merer through two or three nails he had in
his mouth. Another boy was picking his way
across to us.
"I have the character for you now," whis-
pered the sergeant. "The man coming is
called Watson — thinks he can speak French,
and he can't."
A soldier went by carrying an electric drill.
Above a sound unpleasantly reminiscent of the
dentist, the sergeant murmured: "Get down
his French as fast as you can;" and in a louder
voice, as he bowed politely, ''Madame-r-
monsieur Vinterprete/'
"Oh, go on. Sergeant. Watcha get me into
this for!"
"Go to it, boy," commanded the sergeant.
"I '11 help you."
The private gave a deep sigh, and for the
first time glanced at me. We moved toward
an ambulance body nearly set up.
"Moi trayvay'' putting his forefinger to his
eye, ^'regarder id, Ce soldat arranger id,
[92]
FRENCH FROM A LAUNDRESS
Aprds fini . . . je regarder. Peut-etre bon,
peut-etre non bon. Moi inspector. Seef^
Watson tried the door of the little cupboard
in the ambulance. "Id emergency — sup-
plies." (Elaborate gestures to illustrate ban-
daging.) ''Medecin — medicine. Which word
means the doctor and which is the stuff the doc-
tor gives you?" The latch on the cupboard did
not work. He shook his head gravely: then
beckoned to me to come to the back of the
ambulance.
''Austres soldats id dedans. ^^ Putting his
hand on the leather cushion of the seat, he went
on: "Bed. Leet pour blesses.'^
"Combien de blesses f I asked.
"Oh, let's see — Oon, deux, trey, quatre!' he
answered, telling out the numbers on successive
fingers.
He jiggled the tailboard. Something
seemed to be loose.
"Id pas bon. Id soldats trayvay pas bon
— couple of screws missing.**
[93]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
We were standing now at the side of the
ambulance body. My interpreter was open-
ing a boxhke affair above the front wheel.
"How the devil do you say trimmings?"
murmured Watson. ^'Ici petit, petit — no, no,
no, — ici marteau, tools. See? Id — what's
the word for occupants. Sergeant?"
He gave that up, and moved on to the next
ambulance body which a soldier was varnishing.
"Apres fini la-has, c'est ici pour — paint.
What 's the word for paint?" he asked himself.
Turning to me with a beaming smile, he said
convincingly : "CouleurJ"
Private Watson pried open a freshly painted
green door, and explained, while he wiped the
paint off his penknife: ^'Pour ventilation.
Troy petit portes — von, oon, oon, Americans
beaucoup fresh air." He inhaled and exhaled
with vigor so I should not miss the lesson.
"Here heat — " pointing to a little grating.
Then recollecting — ''pour chaud. Peut-etre
froid at the front."
[94] .
FRENCH FROM A LAUNDRESS
I was examining a tin drum-like affair un-
der the front seat.
"Un reservoir pour de Veau?" I asked.
"Out, oui. Tell her the big one above is for
gasoline, Sergeant. She '11 think it 's for
water, too."
Watson walked swiftly ahead of us, glancing
at ambulance after ambulance as he went.
"Sergeant, you are a rascal 1" said I. "Are
you sure these boys don't know me? I lec-
tured a while ago at the Y. M. C. A. hut, you
remember."
"Fixed that, too, Mrs. Gibbons. Oh, Lord
this is real stuff. Only one man in the shop
has seen you before, and he promised to keep
his mouth shut. Fire some more questions at
him—"
The Sergeant covered his face with his hand-
kerchief and his giggles with a thorough nose-
blow, as Watson plucked my coat-sleeve gen-
tly and pointed to a finished ambulance at the
end of the line.
[95]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
"Here Croix Rouge et U. S. medical in-
signia. Dernier e chose. Ambulance fini, fini
maintenant. Say, Sergeant, tell her these am-
bulances are for wounded, but they are also the
wagons that take you out and don't bring you
back. You stay there by request. Tell her
we work like the devil in this shop. If any
man slows down, we ask him if he is working
for Uncle Sam or the Kaiser."
"Combien de temps faut-il pour faire une
ambulance. Monsieur Watson?" I demanded.
"C'est a dire, une fois les pneus bien places et
la peinture terminee, je comprends que — "
"Don't get you. Goshl" cried my inter-
preter, with startled eyes.
"It 's all right, Watson," said the sergeant.
"She wants the real dope on our output. One
ambulance every four hours — um, um, more
than that."
Then followed a discussion between the pri-
vate and the sergeant which revealed to me
[96]
FRENCH FROM A LAUNDRESS
much about the spirit of the outfit and the
quantity of work produced.
"Be sure she gets that dope straight," called
a soldier as he ducked behind an ambulance.
He was laughing.
The sergeant shoo'd the private and me
quickly into a little room, where Watson said:
''Id peinture — you said that was the word for
paint. Sergeant?"
For answer he patted Watson on the back
and said: "Look here, boy, we have been put-
ting over a dirty trick on you. This lady is
not a French journalist. She is Mrs. Gibbons,
the mother of the Little Gray Home in
France."
Watson's blue eyes gave me a long look.
With his right fist he pushed his campaign hat
away back on his head, and groaned.
"It 's a shame," said I, "to have treated you
like this." I slipped my cigarette-case out of
my pocket, and asked, "Will you show me you
[97]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
forgive me by smoking one of my cigarettes?"
Watson took the cigarette and burst out
laughing. "Gee, I 'm a donkey," he cried;
"that sure is a good one on me!"
"I suppose you are thinking about the guy-
ing you will get," I said. "But listen to me.
I have the answer for you. I '11 tell you right
now the impression I should have got, had I
really been a French journalist. If what I say
tallies with the truth, that 's all you '11 need.
You know I Ve never been in this shop before
to-day."
As I talked, the private smiled more and
more, and when I finished, his pleased comment
was. "To think I got away with that, and I
learned my French from a laundress."
[98]
CHAPTER XI
OUE CRUSADEKS ON "THE FOUETH" I
ALSACE
A child climbed on my bed. Half awake,
I thought I was at home. "Lloyd wants to
get warmed up," I said to myself, and made
room beside me. But no bare legs and arms
cuddled to me. I opened my eyes.
Perched up on the eiderdown was a wee girl
with china-blue eyes. A halo of spun gold
hair was topped with drooping bows of wide
black ribbon. A white bodice peeped through
the lacings of a velvet girdle that held in place
a saucy petticoat of Yale blue. Her white-
stockinged legs were crossed. One hand
toyed with a silver buckle on her slipper. In
the other she held a red, white and blue bouquet
tied with Stars-and- Stripes ribbon. The lit-
[99]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
tie fairy kissed me. Thrusting the flowers into
my hands, she cried,
"For America to-day!"
"You blessed child! America thanks you!
You look like a Guy Arnoux poster. The
window makes your frame."
"I made a circle around 'four' with my red
crayon," she continued, "for independence.
Mother wants me to ask if you like coffee in
your room or with us downstairs. How long
are you going to stay?"
"As long as I can. Bunny, but it will never
be long enough to see Alsace."
"Have you any children?"
"A son and three little girls, some bigger
than you and some smaller. They go to the
Ecole Alsacienne in Paris."
"Do they sing 'Un Matin du Printemps
Dernier'?"
"Indeed they do," I answered. "My babies
are alarm clocks, I get up early. I must see
if your sisters look as sweet as you do."
[100]
OUR CRUSADERS IK ALSACE
I hugged her, a lovely armful, and jumped
out of bed. She perched among the pillows
and watched me dress.
*'Sing *Un Matin du Printemps' for me. I
will tell my children you did it."
She sprang to the floor, clasped dimpled
hands, and swaying a little to mark time, she
sang,
Un matin du printemps dernier,
Dans une bourgade lointaine
Un petit oiseau printanier
Vint monter son aile d'ebene.
Un enfant aux jolis yeux bleus
Aper^ut la brune hirondelle,
Et connaissant Toiseau fidele,
Le salua d'un air joyeux
Les coeurs palpitaient d'esperance
Et I'enfant disait au soldat:
Sentinelle, ne tirez pas!
Sentinelle, ne tirez pas!
C'est un oiseau qui vient de France.
"The American soldiers will let all our bird-
ies dare to sing in French," she said gravely,
[101]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
when she had finished. '*They give me red and
white mint sticks, and I hke them."
At the breakfast table with Madame Lauth
and her daughters was a Strasbourg business
man. ''I suppose," said I, "you are looking
forward eagerly to the happy day."
"I go in with the French and American
troops," he answered promptly.
The man from Strasbourg took out his wal-
let, and hunted for a photograph. "This is all
I have from home in four years," he said. "It
was taken from an aeroplane by my nephew.
Look, you can see my house and factory
plainly. They are intact. But I wouldn't
mind having them destroyed, if that is neces-
sary in order to secure the liberation of my
country. All our lives long we have lived in
slavery and humiliation. Were you ever in
Alsace under the German occupation?"
"Only as a tourist," I answered.
"Ah, then, you did not see, you could not
understand ! Think of me, an Alsatian, who
[102]
OUR CRUSADERS IN ALSACE
had to wear the German helmet as a young
man. All the men of my generation, who
could not leave Alsace, had to submit to the
badge of slavery. France was not powerful
enough alone to rescue us. This war has been
a fearful calamity. But, Madame, can you
realize what it means to me to see the Ameri-
can soldiers in Alsace? We have waited
nearly half a century for the world — the civi-
lized world — to come to our aid,"
"To tourists it looked like prosperity and
contentment in Alsace," said Madame Lauth.
"They had no way of knowing. Our men had
to do business with the Germans. Most of
our boys were forced to serve in the German
army. But we women kept alive the love for
France in our homes. We were more fortu-
nate than the men in that we did not have to
come into contact with the invaders. And
we suffered in silence. I was born under the
German yoke, but what I learned from my
mother I passed on to my three girls. During
[103]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
my lifetime no German has ever got farther in
this house than the vestibule. And my three
girls do not know a word of German. From
the time I first began to receive ideas, it was
impressed upon me by my mother that we
Alsatians were a subject race, looking for de-
liverance, and hating the Germans. I have
never spoken to a German except in a shop or
in a government or railway position. I have
never given my hand to one. I have never
touched the garments of one if I could help it.
When my children came into the world, I
taught them what I had learned from my
mother. Acceptance of our fate? No. Re-
conciliation with the conquerors? No and no
and no!"
Little Suzanne came in from the drawing-
room, where she had been watching from the
window what was happening on the square.
"An American band beside the platform.
They are tuning up. Hear them?" she cried.
We left the table to see the preparation for
[104]
OUR CRUSADERS IN ALSACE
the fete. Crowds were pouring into the square
of Masevaux from every street. Women in
mourning led other Alsatian dolls hke Su-
zanne. Poilus and "Sammies" were mingled
with them. Almost every American had a boy
by the hand. French soldiers were finishing
the task of tacking bunting on the platform
that had been erected under the trees at one
side of the square.
We hurried out of doors. The lieutenant
who had brought me from Belfort was wait-
ing to greet me. "Come to your place on the
platform," he said, "before the crowd gets too
big. I do not need to ask if you were comfort-
able at the Lauths'. Your husband has been
their guest more than once, and I knew you
would want to be with them. And you have
three little girls yourself."
The platform and steps were carpeted. The
front row was of red velvet chairs, with im-
mense fauteuils in the middle for the French
and American generals. "You are to sit on
[105]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
the second row," said the lieutenant, "with the
Siamese general and his two aides-de-camp.
They speak French."
Three thin little gentlemen, as yellow as their
uniforms, were presented to me. They saluted
gravely, bowed low over their swords, and
smiled. With us were seated the lawyer from
Paris, the American professor, the French pro-
fessor (an Alsatian refugee), the American
woman journalist, the American Red Cross
representative, American army officers and
Y. M. C. A. men, French officers, and local
personages in dress-suits, holding tall silk hats
in their hands. When the American band
struck up "I want to go back to Michigan,"
the quadruple ring of Alsatian girls around
the fountain rose and clapped their hands and
cheered. After the last flourish of the band
leader's stick, they broke the bouquets in their
hands and threw the flowers on the band.
Then appeared the French and American regi-
ments, and the girls must have regretted that
[106]
OUR CRUSADERS IN ALSACE
they had been so prodigal. The troops
marched past the stand, and drew up on two
sides of the square. Sentimental old thing
that I am, I had in my sleeve the little Ameri-
can flag which I have carried through four
wars. When the speeches were over, and the
band played "The Star-Spangled Banner,"
I took it out to wave, and added another pre-
cious memory. America had come to aid
France to recover her Lost Provinces.
After the "Marseillaise" and the marching
off of the soldiers, I rejoined my hostess on
the steps of her home. There were tears in
her eyes, and she grasped my hand. "It is as
it should be that France and America have the
same colors. I have always dreamed of the
French flag in Masevaux — how it would look
in this square. It has been here for three
years now, and I knew that if it had to leave
once more, this time all Masevaux would go
with it. I never doubted the victory of the
Allies, but the lack of definite assurance to
[107]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
Alsace-Lorraine, that they would support the
claims of France at the Peace Conference —
ah! that has worried us. We had no certainty
until we saw the American soldiers arrive in
Alsace. Madame Gibbons, there is black in-
stead of blue in the German flag. Changing
that black stripe, getting rid of the darkness
— you understand?"
After the celebration on the square, a Te
Deum in commemoration of American inde-
pendence was sung at the church. The organ
of Masevaux is one of the treasures of Al-
sace. It was playing as we entered and
slipped into places in the dim light among the
kneeling French and American soldiers. The
cure made a short address, assuring the Ameri-
cans that they had come to Alsace as crusaders
to fight for the same cause that first had
brought French and Americans together as
comrades in arms a hundred and forty years
ago.
Gray army motors, with poilu chauffeurs,
[108]
OUR CRUSADERS IN ALSACE
were drawn up outside of the church, waiting
for us. We were to lunch at Wesserling, but
were to go by different roads so that Alsatian
villagers and American soldiers could receive
Independence Day greetings at all the smaller
places en route. I was handed out of the
car several times, and presented to quickly
gathered groups of peasants and doughboys
to whom I spoke in French and English. I
shook hands with the Alsatians and Ameri-
cans, and admired and kissed the babies. Oh!
if everywhere in France they had families of
the size of those the Alsatians consider as the
ordinary thing! Children of all ages and
everywhere make soldiering delightful for our
boys in Alsace, who are never seen off duty
without their favorite youngsters around them.
At Wesserling, after lunch, we went
through the linen factories which have worked
without interruption under the German bom-
bardments ever since the French occupation
of the valley of the Thur. Then there was a
[109]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
short and solemn reception at the mairie, where
we shook hands with the veterans of 1870
and admired the flags they had kept hidden
during forty-four years of German occupa-
tion. Champagne, in tall, thin glasses, was
served after the speeches. There is always
champagne at official French receptions —
but always after the speeches. If only they
would start with the drinks, one would appre-
ciate the speeches more. In the Y. M. C. A.
hut, school children sang the "Star Spangled
Banner" in lisping French, led by a bald-
headed, nervous Uttle abbe who beat time furi-
ously with a horny hand. The clergy of this
country do their full share of manual labor in
the villages. American and French comedians
did alternate stunts on the stage. An Ameri-
can soldier sketched lightning-change portraits
of the Kaiser, Hindenburg, the Clown-Prince,
and other notorious characters, with charcoal
on white sheets of paper tacked to a black-
board. He then shifted to more popular sub-
[110]
OUR CRUSADERS IN ALSACE
jects, ending in a crescendo with Wilson and
Clemenceau — Wilson spectacled and stern,
Clemenceau with the familiar slouch felt hat,
and wearing his "Je fais la guerre" expression.
A Frenchman in civilian clothes swallowed
twelve needles, and pulled them slowly out of
his mouth each neatly threaded. Later, as
I was leaving the hut, he met me at the door
dressed in poilu horizon-blue, and filled my
arms with flowers shaken from his sleeves.
We were fifteen at dinner. The command-
ant called on me for a speech. I had to get
to my feet. It was no time for anything sen-
timental or high-sounding, and I could not
have filled the bill anyway. The key-note of
a festival dinner should always be fun, and we
were still under the spell of the Y. M. C. A.
stunts. On purpose I hesitated and fumbled
for words. I spoke slowly to heighten the im-
pression of being ill at ease. I could see that
the conmiandant was bothered, and sorry for
me, sorry that he had asked me to speak.
[Ill]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
"I want to talk about our enemy," I said,
"and French pronunciation is beyond me. I
do not know whether I ought to say les alle-
mands, without pronouncing the s, or lezzz-
allemands/'
The commandant jerked in his chair.
"Lezzzz-allemands" he said tolerantly.
Then I flashed on him. ''Ah, Monsieur le
Commandant, pardon, vous avez bien tort,
II n'y a pltts de liaison avec ces gens-ldr
("Major, excuse me, you are wrong. We no
longer have any liaison with those people!")
The commandant hunched down in his chair,
hung his head, and whispered solemnly, "A
trap ! She laid a trap, and I fell into it !"
One of my particular boys was at the din-
ner, a young captain in the American Intel-
ligence Section. He had brought a car from
Chaumont, and offered to take me back to
Masevaux. So we slipped away, and had a
glorious ride over the hills, skirting Thann,
which was being bombarded, and following the
[112]
OUR CRUSADERS IN ALSACE
new road on the Alsatian side of the Vosges,
built by the French engineers and named after
Marshal Joffre. We passed camp after camp
of Americans, and saw our boys going down
for guard-duty in the front line trenches. At
one place we could see the long, silent line go
through a field and disappear into the boyau.
The moon was up, but they were protected
from the enemy by a clump of trees, and one of
our balloons watched overhead. Shells were
exploding in Old Thann, and an occasional
flare would light up the ruined houses and fac-
tories under the shoulder of the hill that rose
to Hartmannswillerkopf.
"Just think, Sanford,*' I sighed. "Last
year and all the years before the Tourth*
meant firecrackers to those boys, and now it is
this. Listen to the rat-tat-tat of the machine-
guns."
"But next year it will be firecrackers again,
and all the 'Fourths' after that!'* said my
young captain, emphatically.
[113]
CHAPTER XII
TOMMY AND SAMMY
Early in July the silver lining of the cloud
which hung heavily over France at the end of
the fourth year of the war was the magic ap-
pearance of the American army everywhere
along the battle-line from Switzerland to the
North Sea. Everywhere — and I had the op-
portunity to realize the meaning of the figures
that had just been published in Secretary
Baker's letter to President Wilson. I spent
the "Fourth" with our boys in reconquered Al-
sace, and then passed two days in trains along
railway lines encumbered with troops and ma-
teriel going from Belfort to Boulogne. At
places, my train made long and tiresome de-
tours in order to avoid the points still under the
cannon of the invader. But we were still near
[114]
TOMMY AND SAMMY
enough to hear the thunder of the battle.
Faces were strained. The forward push of
the Germans was not yet stopped. They were
on the Marne and preparing to cross. They
threatened Amiens. If there was confidence
and reasonable hope, it was because nowhere
could you stick your head out of the window
without seeing American uniforms.
Was a French or British front-line division
depleted? American battalions and regiments
were thrown in. Were the reserves at any
point giving Marshal Foch anxiety? He had
carte blanche to bring up the new divisions
from across the sea as fast as they landed.
Was it necessary to withdraw the Portuguese ?
Plenty of Americans to take their place. Did
the Italians near Rheims ask for reinforce-
ments? Uncle Sam could give all the help
they wanted. I don't know anything about
military affairs. But I haven't been out of
France one single day since August 1, 1914,
and I do know how the French have felt all
[115]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
through these terrible years. Never was the
situation more critical than when the Ameri-
can Expeditionary Forces grew almost over
night, in so far as the public was aware of its
size, from thousands to a million.
Could we swing the deal? Blind faith had
always made me say, "Yes!" But after I had
ridden from Belfort to Boulogne, and had
watched Maine and Mississippi, Maryland and
Minnesota, Massachusetts and Michigan — and
aU our States which do not begin with "M" —
going up to the front, I could just see the Ger-
man lines (which we had come here in France
to consider impregnable) bending back and
cracking.
So I was prepared to make my first public
speech in French to the people of Boulogne-
sur-Mer, and tell them that it wouldn't be
long until they could bring up from their cel-
lars the lamps and chairs put there for the
nights of raids, and not worry about the thick-
ness of the curtains on their windows.
[116]
TOMMY AND SAMMY
The week away from the Little Gray Home
would not have been complete without a
glimpse of our boys with the British. There
were Americans in Boulogne, as everywhere
else, but I wanted to get out to see them in
the field. Tommy alone and Tommy with the
French and Colonials was a familiar sight, but
Tommy shoulder to shoulder with Sammy —
well, it would take seeing to efface the inborn
prejudice nourished by the unconscious jingo-
ism of the history we learned at school.
My husband joined me at Boulogne. He
had a personal pass "good to all American
camps by train or auto." A French friend had
an auto and a pass for himself and his chauf-
feur. I just went along. I knew I could
smile properly at the French gendarmes.
British military pohce were a harder nut to
crack, but if I tried for a British pass I knew
I would be turned down.
We left Boulogne early in the morning, and
where we went I shall not say. For, precisely
[117]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
because I had no trouble, I do not want to
make trouble for any one else. The second
week of July was a good week for Americans
on the British front. Our troops were being
hurried into Flanders and Belgium, and they
were so ubiquitous that an "American camp"
meant anywhere, and so welcome that no M.
P. was disposed to be ungracious to an Ameri-
can woman.
A favorite topic of conversation in the Little
Gray Home was what name our boys in France
wanted to go by. Memories are still vivid to
some Southerners, and "Yanks" mean Sher-
man marching to the sea. Even with the
Northerners and Westerners and Americans of
the post- Civil War vintage, there is a preju-
dice against "Yanks." From the first days of
the A. E. F., "Sammy" had not been kindly
received. There is as much difficulty in de-
ciding upon a nickname for us as upon a name.
We have no name distinctly our own property.
There are countless other Americans, and
[118]
TOMMY AND SAMMY
Brazil is also a United States in America ! On
the British front, however, Sammy is the nat-
ural corollary of Tommy. Sammy we are to
Tommy, and that settles it.
If there is no more to this chapter, put it
down to the fact that a panic about the censor-
ship has suddenly struck me. I cannot write
about the British front without dealing with
the British censorship. And I had no right
to be up there anyway
[119]
CHAPTER XIII
HOMESICKNESS
The early morning train pulled out from
the Paris station. I was going back to the
Little Gray Home after a visit to the front.
The morning was chilly, and a hurried bite be-
fore six o'clock was not enough. I was hungry
again by eight. My thermos bottle was filled
with cafe-au'lait, and held a good deal.
When I had all I wanted, I reflected that it
was a pity somebody could n't enjoy the rest
of my coffee. I went exploring along the cor-
ridor. In the next compartment were six sol-
diers. I poked my head in the door,
"Time for breakfast."
"That 's just what we 're thinking," an-
swered one of the men. "But the diner won't
[120]
HOMESICKNESS
be put on until eleven o'clock. We 're out of
luck."
"No, you 're not out of luck," said I.
"Wait a minute."
Soon the soldiers were breakfasting. I no-
ticed that one of them had got up to make room
for me and was standing in the corridor.
"Will you have a cup?" I called to him.
"No, thank you."
"Who is he?" I inquired.
"Some guy who seems to have a grouch,"
said one of the soldiers. "We found him in
the compartment here. He 's not with us."
I went back to my place, and settled down
to reading.
When I went into the diner at noon-time,
the number on my ticket indicated a place at
a small table for two. The table was a let-
down shelf, so that my companion, whoever
he might be, would sit beside me, both of us
facing the wall dividing the dining-room from
the kitchen.
[121]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
It was the "guy with the grouch" who came
to sit by me. We tackled hors-d'oeuvres, rad-
ishes, and vegetable salad with a scant layer of
mayonnaise dressing on top, the same hors-
d'cjeuvre they serve in restaurant cars from end
to end of France.
The oflScer kept quiet. So did I. He or-
dered butter and had difficulty making the
waitress understand. I interpreted. He
shared his butter with me. After that we
talked.
"Are you on leave?" I asked.
"No," he replied. "I Ve been here eleven
months without leave."
"It seems to me too bad that our system slips
up occasionally, and men who need rest don't
get it."
"I could not let up," said the officer. "If I
did I 'd lose my grip. I inspect camps and be-
fore I finish one assignment I apply for an-
other on purpose to keep going. Work till I
HOMESICKNESS
drop into my bed at night more dead than
alive."
He spoke hurriedly in a low voice, without
looking at me.
"But you must not keep that up," I ob-
jected. "I 've seen other men in the army
overwork. My own husband does it, and if
I didn't interrupt him he would never stop.
What 's the matter?"
The man had his head turned clear away
from me now.
"Nobody to interrupt me." The words
seemed to come from the window-pane and
were more like an echo than a voice.
The officer suddenly turned half around in
his chair and faced me.
"I 'm going to tell you about it. When I
enlisted, I was engaged to be married. I was
sent to a Southern camp, at a port, before I had
a chance to say good-by. I wired her to go to
New York. A sickening rumor made me fear
[123]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
for days that we would sail from where we were
and not from New York at all. For a week I
was in suspense. It was hell. Then came or-
ders to move, we knew not where. My con-
solation was that they loaded us on trains
and not on a ship. Oh, the days and nights
of travel without knowing our destina-
tion! Then, thank God, we arrived in New
York."
"Was she there?"
"Yes, waiting for me."
"Were you married?"
"Yes," he answered. "I left a bride of four
days."
The head waiter came along and made out
our checks and put them beside the plates.
My left elbow was resting on the table. I
slipped my right hand under and took the offi-
cer's check.
"Are you a millionaire?" I asked.
"No, indeed."
"It would n't matter if you were," said I.
[124]
HOMESICKNESS
"I 'm going to pay for your lunch. Then you
will have been my boy for an hour."
The officer leaned forward and put his head
in his hands. When he looked up again, there
were tears in his eyes.
"You 're the only person in France that I Ve
told, and I won't forget you."
There was a crowd at the Savenay station,
and by the time I could get through the exit
all the ambulances were away. A Knight of
Columbus whom I had never seen before no-
ticed my phght. He took me to the Little
Gray Home in his car, and stayed to dinner.
When we got to dessert he rose.
"I must hurry on," he said.
"I 'm afraid I 've delayed you."
"Not a bit of it," said he. "But I must
reach St. Nazaire before it gets too dark."
"Don't go without writing your name in my
visitors' book."
As he finished writing his wife's address on
the line beneath his own, he said, "I 'm going
[125]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
to ask you to do something for me. Come."
He led the way back to the dining-room.
"Sit down," said he. "I Ve been away from
my wife for one year." He shook hands with
me. "There is a word," he went on, "that
I 've not heard in all that time. You sit still,
and I will go out through the dining-room
door into the garden. You will call after me,
'Good-by, dear.' He walked slowly out, then
turned and looked back.
"Say it!"
"Good-by, dear," I called.
The man turned and bolted. I never saw
him again.
[1S6]
CHAPTER XIV
SOMEWHERE IN THE MUD
An American soldier passed me in the cor-
ridor of the train from Brest. He turned and
looked, hesitated, and came back. Saluting,
he inquired, "Say, ain't you an American
woman?"
"Yes, indeed.'*
"Have some Wrigley's!" Drawing the
chewing-gum from his pocket and cracking
the shiny pink paper with his thumb nail, he
went on, "Where do you belong?"
"Well, I 've had half a dozen homes in Eu-
rope since I was married, but I am originally
from Philadelphia."
"Some traveler — I Ve been going some
myself since I joined this man's army. I am
a real-estate agent from California, but here
[127]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
what do you suppose I am? A baker. Sta-
tioned at Dijon. If you come down there I '11
give you some white bread."
"My, that will be a treat. I '11 remember
when I go down there for the Y. M. C. A."
I kept the card of the boy who gave me the
Wrigley's. On my last evening in Dijon a
muddy "Lizzie" pushed me to the outskirts
of the town, bumped bravely alongside rail-
road tracks, and stopped beside open freight
cars. I thought something had happened to
"Lizzie's" legs, till, through the darkness, I
made out German prisoners. Bossed by boys
in khaki, they were carrying wood. Such
quantities of fuel could be needed only by a
bakery.
A soldier shoved a long flat log into the wet-
test part of the space between me and the hut.
In a corner of the hut a pile of sweepings was
half hidden by the business end of a wide
American broom. The secretary said I was
the first woman to come out to the bakery camp
[128]
SOMEWHERE IN THE MUD
in months, and cleaning had to be done before
I got there. In fact, I was the second "show"
since this camp was made ! The boys are find-
ing out what work means. Every hour in
an army bakery, they say, is seventy minutes
long.
The Y man took me to the canteen counter
where I faced men elbowing their way toward
cigarettes and chocolate. The sign, the back
of a pasteboard box-hd nailed against the
woodwork, read: "Female concert." The
words had been written with the other end of a
penholder dipped unhesitatingly into an ink-
pot.
The secretary lifted a section of the counter
and walked through. Opposite the canteen
end of the hut was the platform. I walked
down the aisle. Men that had been around
the counter followed me and crowded into
the front row chairs.
I faced a mixed bunch, all of them tired.
They were like Lloyd when he comes home
[129]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
from school at noon and sees the lunch on the
table. He won't eat, no ; not he — lunch ought
to have been there before ! The bakers would
be damned if anybody could entertain them
— I ought to have come long ago. Homesick,
hungry eyes looking my way — I felt their an-
tagonism. Something had to be done. There
was an army camp-stool beside the table on
the platform. I sat down, opened my blue
silk beaded bag, and took out a wee mirror and
a powder-box with a pink ribbon rose on its
top. Leaning over the mirror on the table, I
powdered my nose. I took my time, too.
When the handkerchief had dabbed off extra
powder, I looked again into the faces before
me. I confess I smiled hopefully, although
down deep I wondered. Applause and more
applause. Laughter. Some one shouted,
"Do that again!"
Pent-up feelings had spilled over. The
boys were now ready to listen. I had them
with me while I talked of certain qualities of
[130]
SOMEWHERE IN THE MUD
French character. I did not dare let long-
windedness break the spell. Half an hour was
enough.
While Anne was getting the first song
started, I went to the back of the hut. Men
were sitting on writing-tables. I asked if
there were room for me. The man I spoke to
was an Itahan. He jumped down and moved
away in the crowd. I called him back and
made a place for him beside me. I had heard
rightly. His was the tenor voice I was trying
to locate. I persuaded the Italian to come
with me to the platform. There he sang us a
solo, "Darling I-yam Growing Old."
After the show was finished, the sergeant
who had given me the stick of Wrigley's took
me to see bread made. On the way over he
said, "I wish, Mrs. Gibbons, you could tell the
Entertainers' Bureau at the Y. M. C. A.
headquarters that they ought to tip off any-
body going to a bakery. I was detailed to
Nevers for a while. Singers and others com-
[131]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
ing to the bakery there used to make the same
mistake you did to-night. You think all the
men around a bakery knead bread. 'Tisn't
true. Detachments of infantry are here do-
ing guard."
"I see," said I. "I never thought of that."
"Yes," he went on, "we have a wagon com-
pany, and a big bunch of chauffeurs with the
motor-trucks. Making bread is a compli-
cated affair."
"I never dreamed it took so many kinds of
people for an army bakery."
"We are used to that idea," he laughed.
"Besides bakers by trade, we have timber-
men from the West, lawyers, traveling sales-
men, a brakeman on the New York, New
Haven and Hartford Railway. My buddy is
a tinsmith. When he finds you are from the
Quaker City, he will want to shake hands with
you. He worked on the grain elevator at
North Philadelphia."
"Don't you get a certain amount of satis-
[132]
SOMEWHERE IN THE MUD
faction doing something so constructive as
making bread?" I asked.
"You bet you! Beside us are men whose
whole energy is put into destruction — ^muni-
tions, see? — and here we are fighting to give
men the staff of life."
We were entering a building now. A can-
dle was stuck in some dough on a board. I
made out giant dough-trays. They were the
shape of the one my grandmother used to have
on her farm in Pennsylvania. Sloping sides,
as the bottom was smaller than the top. They
were set around the outside walls and down
the center of the building. Frames made of
iron uprights, with woven wire sides and
shelves, hold the bread that is put to rise. The
frames had canvas curtains, adjusted accord-
ing to the temperatm^e. The men were
dressed in white trousers and short-sleeved un-
dershirts. Most of them had their heads cov-
ered with white caps made from XXX Minne-
apolis flour bags.
[133]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
"I used to make caps like the one you have
on when I lived in Constantinople," I observed
^ to a boy who was bending over a dough-tray.
"Who for?" he demanded.
"Turkish soldiers. Their religion won't let
them go bareheaded, and when they get into
our Red Cross hospital we would n't let them
wear their dirty f ezzes. You are the real thing
in a doughboy, are n't you?"
"You bet we're doughboys!" he laughed.
"Look at this wad I 've got — it weighs a hun-
dred pounds."
Others were working small wads into loaves.
If your back was turned, you could tell the
loafmakers by the snappy sound dough makes
when it is kneaded enough.
"See, Mrs. Gibbons, we make two kinds of
loaf — garrison and field. The crust has to be
harder and denser in the field bread. That
means longer baking and it does n't get stale so
soon."
[134]
SOMEWHERE IN THE MUD
"Breathing so much flour all the time —
does n't that hurt men!"
"It is bad. It gives them asthma and even
consumption."
"Why don't you wear gas masks?" I asked.
At a tray near by a boy straightened up and
said: "I was sent to a French army bakery
when I first came over to learn their ways.
The French have flour masks in some bakeries.
They have worked out a way of breathing by
blowing with the mouth toward the side and
taking in air with the nose. Like breathing
exercises. Pretty good, protects the eyes.
Our fellows have n't the patience to do it."
It was possible to talk to the breadbakers
because the different squads try to keep to-
gether in the various processes. Sometimes
one bunch has to wait for another to catch up.
This is in order to make the production imi-
form in amount.
"Were you boys here last Christmas?"
[135]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
"Yes," answered the sergeant.
"What kind of a time did you have?"
"Not bad," sang out one. "Some society
sent sixty comfort bags. There are over three
hundred of us. We made as many cards as
there were men — then drew. Some got a
blank, some didn't. Everybody had some-
thing. There 's lots of things in a comfort bag,
and the guys that drew a card marked *Pres-
ent' opened up and passed round knives and
pipes and toilet articles."
With my hands full of dough from good-by
handshakes, I stepped out into the night to
brighter light than there had been inside.
Paralleling the building was a row of outdoor
ovens.
"Why are the ovens not closer to the build-
ing, sergeant?" I asked. "I should think they
could be equipped in some way so their heat
could be utilized for raising the bread."
"It is a queer thing," said the sergeant.
"This is a system worked out by a master baker
[186]
SOMEWHERE IN THE MUD
at home. Guess he is a major now. He got
better results from using two sets of stoves:
those cone stoves you saw back in the build-
ing that look like tiny wigwams for raising
the bread — and then the baking-ovens out-of-
doors."
At the end of the line of ovens, when I could
tear myself away from the fascination of the
glowing trench that ran back of them, I heard
a voice from a tent :
"Did I hear you coughing, Mrs. Gibbons?
Just come in here, please."
It was the bakers' doctor, eager to show me
his medicines and a fine new table that made his
tent look like an office.
"I have mostly burns to treat here," said he.
"Where is your ambrine?"
"Don't use it," said the Doctor.
I scolded him a bit less than I wanted to be-
cause he gave me a box of cough lozenges.
Beyond the Doctor's tent was a high struc-
ture I could have found with my eyes shut from
[137]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
the nut flavor of stored-up bread. Inside were
great racks piled high with thousands of loaves.
It is forbidden for me to remember the number
of loaves the bakery produced in a day. That
is unknown even to the censor. The sergeant
gave me a couple of loaves to take home to
Paris.
My children have been eating dark war
bread for so long that when they saw Uncle
Sam's white bread they thought it was cake.
The unsweet taste brought disillusion.
"It isn't good cake," said Christine, "and
it is n't good bread." She pushed it aside, and
reached for another piece of the French bread
we are being pitied for eating.
[138]
CHAPTER XV
"takes a long, tall, brown-skin man to
MAKE A GERMAN LAY HIS RIFLE DOWN"
One morning, when the children and I were
eating our porridge, I heard men's voices and
the sound of tools on the road. We went to
the gate to look out. Negro soldiers were
tumbling a pile of picks off a truck. When
this was finished, two white sergeants jumped
down from where they had been directing op-
erations. The sergeants came over to greet
us. One of them took Christine and Lloyd
to explain to them how roads are mended.
The other stayed with me.
"Just look at those boys over there," said he.
"Niggers can loaf more comfortably than any
other kind of people, and they can do it any-
[139]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
where." A negro corporal overheard this, and
went over to and bawled the loafers out.
One of them straightened up and retorted,
"What 's de mattah wid yo', niggah? De war
ain't gwine be ovah dis week!"
The boys were scattered along the road in
groups, attacking the holes of a year of heavy
traflSc. Uncle Sam's trucks have done the
damage. Uncle Sam's soldiers are making
the repairs.
The group directly in front of the gate be-
gan to sing,
"Honey, wat's yo' trouble?
(Bang went the picks.)
Ain't got none. (Bang.) Won't be long.
(Whistle.)
Ah 'm gwine to tell yo',
(Bang!)
How Ah make it,
(Bang!)
An' it won't be long.
(Bang!)"
[140]
"A LONG, TALL, BROWN-SKIN MAN"
"Can these boys fight as well as they can
dig?" I asked.
"They sure can," answered the sergeant.
"The only thing they are afraid of is a grave-
yard. When they get up to the front, they
don't need guns and ammunition. A little
rum and a razor and go to itl"
"General Pershing will need you boys fur-
ther up the line before long," I said. "You
know the other day, when we heard he was
inspecting Base One, the children took the
flag down from the pole and put it right on
the wall here with little stones on the top to
keep the wind from blowing it away. They
wanted to be sure their hero would see it. I
wish you could have been here to share the
children's delight when he did go by. They
will never forget that their big general rose
right up in his motor car — and saluted their
flag."
Despite sergeant and a corporal, the sol-
[141]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
diers would rest frequently on their picks, and
they kept up a continuous conversation.
"Oh, boy, — dis heah goin' ovah de top!"
exclaimed one, mopping his forehead with a
bandanna. "Dat was one fine speech young
Pershing made to de boys. He said dat ebery
one back heah is goin' to git his chance soonah
o' latah. Ah jes knows how it 's goin' to be.
Ah kin see it!"
"How come you knows anything 'bout it,
niggah?"
"Oh, boy! Can't you see it lak Ah do?
You git yo' gun an' you counts yo' am'ni-
tion and you makes yo' bay 'net all shiny.
When de cap'n hoUahs, 'Go!' — you jes' clam-
mahs out o' dat trench an' you keep on shootin'
Germans an' a-slashin' 'em wid dat dere
bay'net-razah ob yourn tell the ain't no mo'
Germans. Nen you comes on back tell de
nex' time."
"Um-imi, — dat ain't it," remonstrated the
[142]
"A LONG, TALL, BROWN-SKIN MAN" v
other. "Goin' obah de top is good mawnin',
Jesus."
"What is your name?" I put in, addressing
the graphic describer of trench assaults.
**Ah am George Darcy, ma'm."
"Darcy! Why, that's a French name."
**Ah dunno, ma'm."
"Where are you from, Darcy?"
"From Geo'gia. Yes, ma'm, some day —
glory be — Ah '11 quit saying from — Ah '11 be
in Geo'gia!"
"Can't you boys sing for me?" I asked.
"Yes um I We got a leadah, name 's Paul
Brown. Mistah Paul Brown from Pennsyl-
vania— Gettysbu'g. Paw-ul! Oh, Paw-ul!"
he called.
Paul comes along, dragging his pick.
"Paul is a good singer, but he 's no en-
gineer," said the sergeant. "Last week an
aviator flew over to our camp. He offered to
take Paul up for a little spin. No, sir, Paul
[143]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
proved that day he was no engineer — he re-
fused to go up. Afraid that when he got up
there somebody would shoot him for a damn
blackbird."
"I don't care what you think about aero-
planes, Paul," I laughed. "If you will get
these boys to sing for me, I '11 give you all some
cider, and you may come in and eat your lunch
under my trees."
Paul eyed me. Then he giggled.
"Dese heah boys is sufferin' mostly wid thote
trouble. 'Pears to me dat ef we give 'em
cidah to slick em thotes down good firs' — "
"You tell it, boy !" laughed one of my chorus,
encouragingly.
They got their cider "firs'."
"Some of you will have to drink out of the
same bowls. I have n't enough to go around.
Do you mind?"
"No, ma'am, lady."
"No seconds to-day," shouts one. In the
rear of the group around the cider barrel (I
[144]
"A LONG, TALL, BROWN-SKIN MAN"
had taken them to the source of supply), an-
other tells his neighbor, "Ah used to wuk fo'
white-folks dat has a house somethin' lak dis.
Li'l mo' style to it — but dey did n't give nig-
gahs no cidah, uhm-uhm — !"
After the morning had been devoted to a
few holes and ruts, the men sat under the trees
in my garden, talking as they finished their
lunch. A couple of them picked up the papers
in which the sandwiches had been wrapped, and
took empty salmon cans back to the kitchen.
Darcy found the rope I keep in my barn in
case some motor breaks down and has to be
towed. He laced it up and down through
limbs of trees so that every kid of mine could
have a swing.
The sergeants smoked with me over coffee.
"When negro troops first came to St. Nazaire
they told the French that they were Ameri-
can Indians," said Preston.
"Their keen ear and extraordinary sense of
rhythm made it fairly easy for them to pick
[145]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
up a little French, too," added Smith. "But
they don't all take advantage of it. At our
camp a Y. M. C. A. secretary was talking to
one of the men in my squad the other night
about education. Put it straight to the fel-
low. 'Joe, there is no use letting this chance
slip by. You say you did n't finish your stud-
ies. This is the time to learn something.
Your work brings you in touch with the French
civilian laborers. Mighty good way to get a
promotion is to study French. Can I count
on you to come around Thursday night for
the first meeting of our class in beginners'
French?' Joe, who had kept quiet all this
time spoke slowly: 'Uhm-uhm — dey don't
speak French in Berlin.' "
"There was another good one I heard the
other day," said Preston. "Nigger had a mis-
ery. He went to the infirmary. Doctor said,
" * Where is it? In your back?'
" 'No.'
" *In your chest?'
[146]
«A LONG, TALL, BROWN-SKIN MAN"
" 'No.'
" 'In your head?'
" 'No/
" 'How long have you been in the serv-
ice?'
" 'About three months.'
" 'Have you been taught how to address offi-
cers?'
" 'Yes.'
" 'Why don't you address me that way?'
" 'Good Gawd! Is doctahs officahs, too?' "
"Were you in camp. Smith, last week when
those new bunches of troops came in fresh
from the States?"
"The day the lieutenant lined the boys up
and asked if there were a first-class bugler
among them? That 's a good one. Tell Mrs.
Gibbons."
"The lieutenant lined them up, as Smith
says, and asked:
" 'How long have you been blowing a bugle,
my boy?'
[147]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
"'I can't blow no bugle, suh. Lawd no I
I thought you said burglar, suh.' "
*'0h, they 're a great set of boys," said Pres-
ton. "I 've soldiered with niggers ever since
the beginning and I would n't change for any-
thing. You can't help liking them. In the
first place they get their fun out of their work.
And then they '11 do anything on earth for
the officer they like. That is the way with
them. There is n't any sergeant in our par-
ticular bunch that they hate, but they know
which one they like best. If they get put
with some one else, it 's just like you hit them
in the head with a rock."
"I issue stuff to the boys," said Smith.
"Mrs. Gibbons, I have the same amount of
safety razors to issue as the straight kind.
I '11 bet I have n't had five men want to take
safety razors ! A fight occurred in one of our
barracks not long ago. One side did not know
what to expect from the other because it was
[148]
"A LONG, TALL, BROWN-SKIN MAN"
known Sam had a safety razor. One of my
men told me about it afterwards:
" *We done found out when de fight come off
dat Sam may have had a safety razah fo' to do
his face — but he had another in his boots fo'
social purposes.' "
"I pay the boys," said Preston. "They get
their money changed into these French two-
cent pieces with a hole punched in the middle
and string it around their necks. Dear me!"
he exclaimed. "It 's time to go back to work."
"Let me have just a few minutes more," I
begged. "I want yom* crowd to sign their
name here in my visitors' book."
The boys came in grinning. One of them
pushed his fists away down in the pockets of
his overall, and hunched his powerful shoul-
ders.
"Ah'd be tickled to death to hab mah name
in dat swell book o' yourn," he said, "ef you
would jes' please write it fo' me. Hit 's so
[149]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
long since Ah lef ' school Ah done got plum out
o' practice."
"Mis' Gibbons," said another, "Ah 's hon-
ah'd to be in dis heah Li'l Gray Home — Ah
ben readin' 'bout it fo' yeahs."
"Been here some time?" I asked him.
"Yes, um," he answered. "We done all
land at de Po't ob Bres'."
"Did you have a pretty good crossing?"
"Dey say it was purty fair, but you know
dey have me cookin' down to our camp and
Ah can't bear to look at ma big box of salt —
makes me think of dat ole ocean."
"Back to work, boys," commanded the ser-
geant.
As the grown-up children moved out of my
door I heard one chuckle, "Who says rocks
can't move now?"
[150]
CHAPTER XVI
A QUARRY AND A BUS
"Have you forgotten?"
The question was asked by a stout soldier
rather older than most.
"Forgotten that your lieutenant has asked
the entire Gibbons family to have supper at the
quarry to-night? If I forgot it myself, the
children would remind me!" said I.
"Come on, then," said Bob. "We want the
whole crowd, you and the children and
Mademoiselle Alice and Rosalie. We are all
for Rosalie," he continued. "Every Sunday
since the lieutenant discovered you, she has
cooked for some of our fellows."
"We '11 come right along."
"All right. I '11 just go out and crank up
[161]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
the bus. Jim 's with me — came along for the
ride."
"Sure you have room for everybody?'*
"Better bring an old steamer-rug," said
Bob. "They can put it on the floor to sit
on."
We piled in.
"This bus is our maid-of -all-work," said
Bob, as we bounced over a thank-you-ma'am in
the road.
"Aw, that 's all right, Mr. Shofer," broke
in Jim. "Guess the missus can stand as
much as what any of us can. She 's a war-
horse."
"The bus has earned her supper, all right,"
continued Bob. "We 've had her southeast
wheel jacked up all day with a belt hitched to
it, pumping water."
The quarry lies five miles down our road.
All you see of it in the road is the tent and
two barracks buildings. The lieutenant was
waiting for us.
[152]
A QUARRY AND A BUS
"The boys are just ready to go to supper,"
he said. "We shall put the Gibbons family at
the head of the mess line."
The mess kits were given to us when we got
to the head of the line by the kitchen door.
Caldrons rested on low packing-cases. Be-
hind each caldron stood a soldier with ladle
and fork. We had stewed tomatoes, baked
hash, pudding, and coffee. The cook stepped
out into the messroom from the kitchen. He
was wiping his eyes with a khaki-colored hand-
kerchief.
"Great Caesar !" he exclaimed. "My fire has
taken to smoking. We need gas masks!"
After the Gibbons family was helped, the
soldiers moved rapidly by the caldrons. It
took no more time to serve a hundred men than
to attend to us. We are not used to mess-
kits, and little hands are wobbly. As I sat
down, I reflected that neatness and precision
in preparing and serving food belong not to
women alone.
[153]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
"This dinner 's remarkably good," I said
to the lieutenant.
"Think so myself," he answered. "The man
that made it was a cook on a dining-car."
We formed in line again and went along with
the men to a spot outdoors where a double re-
ceptacle contained hot water. It was propped
up with stones over a fire. We dipped our
forks and things into one side where there was
water with washing soda in it, then into the
other side to rinse them.
The soldiers went from dishwashing into the
tent where there were benches. I had ciga-
rettes and chocolate. This isolated camp is
not big enough to have a Y. M. C. A. hut.
While the children were handing the cigarettes
and chocolate around, I told the boys stories.
In small camps men would rather talk than be
talked at. I led them around to talking by
telling them I was ready to answer questions.
This always changes a formal lecture into a
conversation. The first question was one I
[154]
A QUARRY AND A BUS
invariably get in audiences of men who have
not yet been to the front.
"Were you in Paris during an air raid?"
"Yes."
"How do you feel? The other night we
was blastin'. A corner of the barracks roof
blowed off. You 'd a thought it was an air
raid the way them brave soldiers ran."
By this time the men were smoking com-
fortably, for I had told them the old saying
that "a woman is only a woman, but a good
cigar is a smoke."
The children handed song books around.
"Say," inquired a soldier, "you ain't goin'
to give us any of this here smile smile business,
are you?"
"Certainly not."
"We don't always feel like smiling, you
know," he went on.
"If you feel that way, let 's begin with the
saddest song in the book. How about,
*Massa 's in de cold, cold ground'?"
[155]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
They wailed through the song with perfect
application and imperfect harmony.
"Now we Ve got that off om* chest," I sug-
gested, "is 'Kentucky Home' too cheerful?
Let 's get together better on this one. When
we come to the chorus the boys on my right-
hand side of the aisle are to whistle."
It was a hit. Somebody in the back of the
tent stood up and proposed another.
"How about 'Dixie' 1"
As the soldiers say, it was "goin' good"
now.
We finished the singing with "I Went to
the Animal Fair." In the end the boys were
laughing so much they got mixed up. They
couldn't decide who should sing the verse
and who should shout, "Monkey, monkey,
monkey."
The meeting broke up with more questions,
this time of a personal nature that involved
digging photographs of mothers and sweet-
hearts and babies out of pockets, or running
[166]
A QUARRY AND A BUS
over to the barracks to get them from the other
coat.
**Could you come with me to the quarry?"
said the lieutenant. "My night shift is down
there breaking stone. Unless you are tired,
I 'd like you to say something to them."
I left the children sitting on laps. Rosalie
was inspecting the kitchen. Alice had found
a soldier who said he could speak French.
. "Speak French? Yes, ma'am — I thought I
did some," he said. "I have been here a year
in this base. I was sent to Paris for a month.
They told me there I spoke Breton and not
French at all r
It was dark and Lieutenant Greig had to
use his pocket flashlight to show me the way.
He asked the soldiers to stop their work and
come over near the acetylene lamp that threw
light where they were breaking stone.
When we finished the songs, I asked these
boys if they had best girls back home.
"My best girl is my mother," said one.
[157]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
"The other kind sort o' loses out when you get
so far away unless you were engaged or mar-
ried before you left!"
When we got back to the tent there was ap-
ple pie. I sat down to eat mine with a little
group of soldiers.
"We are going to leave our happy home,
Mrs. Gibbons," said Bob. "I guess when we
get up to the front, there will be many times
we '11 regret the old quarry. Men in this out-
fit come from forty-two different States, but
Lieutenant Greig is a real leader, and we are
a united crowd."
"We '11 miss you, too," said Jim. "You 're
the only person that has paid any attention to
us in France. It has been good to be able to
drop in at the Little Gray Home. You don't
know what it means to talk to an American
woman over here. Different with the French.
Got to talk broken to them and it mostly ends
in 'no compree?' ''
"I 'm glad to go," said Albert. "I 'm funny
[158]
A QUARRY AND A BUS
that way." (Albert put emphasis on "that"
and slurred "way." He comes from Colum-
bia, Pennsylvania.) "I want to be on the
move. To a railroad man there 's no sound
like wheels rolling."
Jim shook his head. "No," said he, "I 'm
glad to go to the front and do my part and all
that, but after the war the States will hold me.
I won't budge farther from home than the
length of my wife's apron strings. 'T ain't
the movin' about that bothers me. If they
shoot my leg or my block off, clean like, there 'd
be the end of it. See? What I don't want
is funny business with nerves. I was on a job
once where I had to climb up a crane. One
day I fell thirty feet. Spent two months in a
hospital. Now I can't bear to get off the
ground, not even into a tree. If I do, either
the tree shakes or I shake. See what I mean?
A man's memory is bound to work on what
happens to him at the front. It 's them kind
of things that I dread, not gettin' shot up."
[159]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
"I know exactly what you mean," said I.
"There are two things I cannot bear. One is
to hear bugling."
"Why?"
"Because in Tarsus the Turks bugled to call
the crowd together to begin the massacres."
"Sure," said Jim, placing his hand on his
stomach and drawing his breath quickly.
"Get 's you here. Cold feeling. What is the
other thing you don't like?"
"Last Saturday I went to Angers to see
my brother. We were sitting at a table on
the pavement in front of a cafe. A civilian
motor whizzed past, blowing a siren horn. I
tightened my two fists and kept quiet. My
brother said, 'I know how you feel. To me
that means a moonlight night back of the
lines.' "
"How many air raids have you been in?"
said Jim.
"Twenty-seven."
[160]
A QUARRY AND A BUS
"Say! What are you going to do after
this war? Goin' back to America?"
"Yes!"
"Goin' to put your travehng shoes under the
stove and let 'em stay there !"
[161]
CHAPTER XVII
A LITTLE DUTCH CLEANSEE
I do not know whether I belong in A, B, C,
or D Class. Conducting officers are tipped off
from Headquarters about writers to whom
passes are granted. What you may see is
down in black and white according to how im-
portant they think you are and how far they
feel they can trust you. When the conduct-
ing lieutenant came to the Little Gray Home
to fetch me this morning, he kept well the
secret of my rating. After a comprehensive
trip over the base, I asked to see an American
heavy cannon mounted on a train of its own.
The lieutenant did not say no.
The automobile followed the main road for
a bit and then went across coimtry. Finally
[162]
A LITTLE DUTCH CLEANSER
we were bumping over fields, and occasionally
sinking into them.
We came to railroad tracks. The cannon
train was before me, on its immense trucks.
Poking its barrel proudly aloft, it was like a
giant menacing forefinger calling upon aveng-
ing gods of justice. A guard was swinging
his legs off the edge of a truck.
"How-do-you-do," I greeted him. "Will
you let us take a look at your cannon?"
He jumped down and saluted.
"We never open it on account of the dust,"
said he. "The inside works are greased, and
if dust should settle on them — " He paused
for words to express how great would be the
calamity.
"What I don't see," I continued, "is why the
thing does n't rip itself right off the tracks
when you fire it."
The lieutenant took papers from his wallet
and handed them to the guard.
"Come on," said he, "this way."
[163]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
We walked along the platform.
"There 's more to it than just a cannon,"
said he. "There 's a crew, upwards of sixty
men. They 've got their quarters and the oflB-
cers have theirs. There are containers for the
ammunition and a couple of cars for supplies."
"Another train identical with this," put in
the conducting lieutenant, "went out yester-
day. The boys called it the Berlin Express,"
"Ours is the Little Dutch Cleanser f' said
the guard, smiling proudly. "We 're pulling
out to-morrow."
We stopped before one of the coaches.
"This here is a messroom for the men. Can
you take a high step, lady?"
We climbed on the train and found ourselves
in the kitchen. A soldier was preparing lunch-
eon. I sniffed.
"My! That coffee smells good!"
"Want some?" said the guard. "Our coffee
is no good, I never drink it myself. Give her
a cup, Charlie."
[164]
A LITTLE DUTCH CLEANSER
Charlie poured a mug and added cream from
a tin can.
"Why, it's wonderful coffee!" I protested.
Everybody laughed.
"Ohl" said the guard, "there 's two hospital
cars, too. Want to see them? Doc 's in there
now."
We walked through the messroom into the
doctor's quarters.
"A lady and an officer wants to look at
your outfit. Captain," announced the
guard.
"Come in," said the doctor. "We've had
only two days to arrange things here, so don't
mind what you see."
What we did see was a magnificent white
enamel interior. There was a faint smell of
carbolic acid, and every available inch of space
told. The next car had bunks. In it were
two patients. One had got something in his
eye, and the other was mending an arm broken
by the kick of the gun.
[165]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
"Americans everywhere, aren't there?" I
said.
"You bet you," said the boy with the broken
arm. "Coming all the way from Hell Gate
to Barnegat."
"What 's the answer to the Austrian note?"
I asked.
"Take Metz," said the guard. He hitched
a thumb over his shoulder to point to the gun.
"And after that?" I went on.
"Go home."
"Who will be the last to leave, I wonder?"
"We will," said the captain, conclusively.
"Doctors will stay in France long after peace
is declared to take care of the men."
"They all tell me that," said I. "The en-
gineers claim they will have to make the coun-
try tidy after the infantry goes. The quarter-
master corps people say they must stay, of
course, to feed everybody. The telephone girls
know they will be needed till the last minute.
Accountants know they must clear up financial
[166]
A LITTLE DUTCH CLEANSER
matters before they see the States. Truck
drivers say they will have to stay till the last
load of baggage is hauled. And a colored
soldier told me the other day, *When we all
done climb 'board dat ship, de cap'n '11 be
standin' dere wid his old opera glasses an' de
whistle '11 be blowin'. He '11 spy me an' say,
**Sam, jes take a broom an' go down and sweep
off dat dock, fore we sails." ' "
"One thing is certain," put in the captain;
"we shall stick by the game as long as there
is fighting to do. We 're going to catch Jerry
Boche and hand him over to these people to do
what they like with him. But if they expect
us to stay over here after that is done, they
guess again. The boys call the cannon their
Little Dutch Cleanser. We shall clean up the
job, and after that it 's H-O-M-E!"
[167]
CHAPTER XVIII
GENTLEMEN ALL
A four-mule team stopped at our door.
Sergeant Applegate appeared with a basket in
one hand and a package carefully balanced
in the other.
"A little present from us boys," he said, as
he set the things down on the study table.
"Vegetables, fresh vegetables !" I cried.
"We know you have trouble getting green
things. The summer has been bone-dry and
I 'm sure the peasants 'round here tell you
their crops have failed."
He cut the string with his penknife and took
off the lid of the basket.
"Beets, cucumbers, tomatoes, and a lot of
lettuce at the bottom."
[168]
GENTLEMEN ALL
"How is it you can grow vegetables and the
peasants can't?"
"Good American watering-cans and plenty
of people to use them," said the sergeant.
"Tedious work for the soldiers every night
after sun-down. We 've been praying for
rain, and I guess our prayers are no good.
The boys told me to ask you to pray like any-
thing to-day so they would n't have to do the
sprinkling to-night."
"Where are you bound for?" I asked.
"The Holy City. We are turning in the
mules, worse luck. They sent them to us to be
fattened up, and just when we need them they
are called in."
"You won't be sorry to loose Molly, though,
will you? The boy that was plowing with her
the last time we had dinner at the farm told
Lloyd and me that Molly has no ambition.
You 've certainly given us a treat," said I.
"The vegetables?" said the sergeant. "Oh,
that 's not much. Here 's the real treat."
[169]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
He took the paper off the package.
"When you were at the farm, you told us
how you had been trying to collect enough but-
ter and flour and eggs to make a cake. We
made one for you."
"A chocolate layer cake!" I exclaimed.
"We knew you had invited the boys from
the garage to dinner to-night, and we thought
these things would come in handy. It may
take us all day to turn over the mules, and get
another skinny team, so I don't say we won't
drop in here at dinner time."
In the evening, I put candles in the dining-
room. Two tables were set to hold the crowd.
Daddy had come in time for the party, and was
in the kitchen carving the chickens Rosalie
roasted. Madame Criaud and rran9ois'
mother had killed their choicest birds for the
feast. Early and late the boys at the garage
had done things for us. Before I returned
to Paris, I wanted to get them together to
say "thank you." The soldiers who interest
[170]
GENTLEMEN ALL
me the most are those that have their two hands
on the steering wheel of a motor truck, and the
chauffeurs I know the best are those at the Sav-
enay hospital. They are men from many parts
of the U. S. A. Some of them have cars of
their own at home. Two of them are brothers
who, since their father bought one of the first
twelve cars that existed in America, have en-
joyed the use of twenty-eight other cars of their
own. The roof of the garage at the Savenay
hospital shelters more than tools and gasoline
and motors. The boys that work there have
knuckled down to their job far from the excit-
ing front-line trenches that lured them into
enlisting in the motor service of a hospital unit
in the hope of getting into the fight before
anybody else. They have courage and court-
esy and cheer. Perhaps the open-air life and
being constantly on the move improves a fel-
low's disposition. Perhaps these boys are spe-
cial people. I doubt it. I believe they are
typical nephews of Uncle Sam, ready to take
[171]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
any job Uncle Sam puts them at. Certain
it is that when I chose a group of our soldiers
to show off to an inquiring French journalist
who needed to be convinced of the high quality
of the American Expeditionary Force I led
him to the Savenay garage and swore to him,
after he had seen those men as I see them, that
the whole American army is made up of boys
of the same sort.
The sound of an approaching motor was
heard and the singing got nearer. The boys
trooped in.
"Where is your lieutenant?" I asked.
"On duty at the garage, so we could come."
"Did he send you all?"
"All but three that had to stay for emerg-
ency trips."
Before we sat down to dinner, one of the
soldiers said, "Look how I pinched my hand
cranking our ambulance to-night."
"Here 's my chance," said I, "to christen my
new medicine cabinet. The boys who work in
[172]
GENTLEMEN ALL
the car-assembling department at the motor
reception park in the Holy City made it for
me." I led the way to the study, where I
scrubbed the hand with carbolic soap.
"Gee, look at the miles of bandages!" said
my patient.
"Yes," said I, "and here 's just the thing to
heal up that bruise. It is painful to have any-
thing happen to the fleshy part of your hand
at the base of the thumb."
"The guy that slung the brushes on that
chest of yours was some painter!"
"See how well he put in the lettering on the
top, *A Little Gray Home in France,' and
look inside the lid, *C. Curtis, The Painter/ "
"What 's this name in the other corner,
'Nigh'?"
"That is the doctor. He thought of the
medicine cabinet and fitted it up for me. He
knows I often have to do a dressing like this
and he calls the Little Gray Home a field
branch of his ofiice."
[178]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
When the last of the chocolate cake was dis-
appearing, we heard wheels. Sergeant Ap-
plegate and his men walked in.
"I never appreciated this place as I do to-
night," said the sergeant, as he took off his
overcoat. "We are dog-tired. Say, I should
have asked you to wait till to-morrow to pray
for that rain. It 's pouring."
We patched up a dinner for the late-comers,
and I sat and talked with them while the others
smoked with Daddy in the study.
"How goes the farm?" I asked.
"During the week ending last night we sent
over to the hospital fifteen hundred francs'
worth of vegetables," said the sergeant.
"All for patients, I suppose?"
"Yes, and you may be sure they enjoyed
them."
"Tell me how you came to get that farm," I
suggested.
"It started in a small way," began the ser-
geant. "When the first unit marched up from
[174]
GENTLEMEN ALL
the Holy City to Savenay to begin work on
the hospital, two or three of us got it into our
heads that part of our job is teaching con-
valescents that they are useful. Fresh air and
work, the results of which could be seen and
handled, there must be, if our wounded are
to be led to where they can face the future with
hope."
"I see," said I ; "like the schools for the re-
education of French soldiers."
"Bill and Jack and I had our eye on this
farm because the fields run right up to the
property leased by the hospital. The colonel
backed us, and we were allowed to rent the
farm. At first there were more men in the
unit than patients in the wards. We were able
to slip out and lose ourselves there. We
cleaned up the farmhouse, made furniture of
packing cases, and prepared the land for plant-
ing. When our gardens began to yield, we in-
vited the colonel to dinner. The spell of the
place got him the way it had us. He took off
[175]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
his blouse and his Sam Brown belt and sat
down to eat with us boys. He was so de-
lighted with the lettuce and fresh peas that he
was able to catch the vision of what the farm
would mean to patients. He promised to send
convalescents here to work, for he saw with us
that the work was twofold; first, the good it
would do the sick boys to have an unlimited
supply of farm products ; and then the benefit
that would come to convalescents from being
allowed to work. He enlisted the aid of the
American Red Cross in the development of our
idea. The work of the fiirm is all done by
patients. Bill and Jack and I direct it and
jolly the men who are discouraged."
"Men who are well enough are ordered
there," I asked, "detailed to light duty as if
they were in a camp?"
"The boys are ordered to come, of course,"
he replied. "But once there we drop military
stuff. It is a difficult proposition to teach
cripples how to work. If we had military
[176]
GENTLEMEN ALL
discipline it would be next to impossible to dis-
pel embarrassment or resentment in the men
who come to us. Usually a detail is sent out
in charge of a sergeant, who watches them like
a foreman. You take a one-legged boy or-
dered to report at the farm. He joins others,
one-eyed boys, patients suffering from shell-
shock, and they are brought to the farm in a
truck. You should see their faces when we
put them on their honor, send them out to weed
or water the garden, and then let them alone.
They do wonders. The proof is in the re-
sults."
"You must have lots of fun," said I.
^'Indeed we do. Last week we had a bunch
of East-siders from New York at the thresh-
ing machine and it was all we could do to get
them away from it. They had never seen any-
thing like that before."
One of the boys came in from the study.
"Say, do you chew tobacco, Mrs. Gib-
bons?"
[177]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
"No," I answered. "Why?"
"Well, there was a package of chewing
tobacco on your desk — "
"Yes, I know. About two weeks ago I had
a convoy here for the night and just before
they left a soldier gave me that. He said he
wanted to do something for me and he thought
the best way to please me was to give me some-
thing for some buddy. 'If you 're a chewin'
guy and you ain't got no wad, it 's hell.' It
has been like that all summer. Boys that had
plenty of tobacco gave me some for those that
might be without. I have never bought ciga-
rettes. Do you want that pack of chewing
tobacco?"
"Got it in my pocket," patting his hip.
"You get all sorts and kinds of men here,"
said Sergeant Applegate, "like us at the farm.
Colonels and majors down to buck privates."
"Mostly buck privates," I commented; "rep-
resentatives of a hundred and eight organiza-
tions have been here. And, do you know, I
[178]
GENTLEMEN ALL
have never had a single man do or say anything
that offended me."
"How do you manage if you have a mixed
bunch, for dinner? Say a captain and a lieu-
tenant and three or four soldiers. How do
you seat them?"
"I ask the officers to play their bars are
gone and to sprout wings instead."
"And do you get away with it?"
"Yes, we all sit down together at table. It
works out all right because you are gentlemen
aU."
[179]
CHAPTER XIX
WHERE IS JACK?
"It has come — the cablegram!"
Captain Wilson climbed down from his car.
"And it is—?"
"A son. Our first boy, born on August 14."
"Congratulations, Captain!" We shook
hands.
"I 'm a happy man to-day," said the cap-
tain. "Think how long I Ve waited for the
news. To-day is the sixteenth of September."
"A comforting thought is that letters are
certain to come quickly after the cablegram.
And you '11 know right away who he looks like,
whether his hair is curly, and his name."
"Let 's go to the soda-water fountain," sug-
gested the captain. "I never miss a chance
to get a drink of water from your well."
[180]
WHERE IS JACK?
He opened the knotted string of the door
to the wire cage around the well.
"I have to keep that tied so the children
won't fall in," I said.
We let down the pail.
"Carefully, Captain. Be sure the chain
winds up on this side, otherwise the pail gets
lost. Rosalie is sick of fishing it out."
"Why don't you have Daniel Finney mend
it while he's here? I see. Your trouble is
with the windlass. Finney ! Come here a mo-
ment."
Finney is the captain's colored orderly.
He came to the Little Gray Home early this
morning with tools, a bag of cement, and a
pole, to fulfil a promise of arranging the chil-
dren's flag. They want to put it up and take
it down like soldiers they have seen in the
camps.
"Look at this windlass, my boy," said the
captain.
"Done got sprung, ain't it, suh?"
[181]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
"Get your pliers and bend it here," said
the captain.
When Finney had done the trick, he poured
himself a drink of water.
"Dat's a treat," said Finney. "Yes, um,
dey ain't no tas' ob disinfectin' 'bout it."
"And I know it won't hurt you," said I,
"for I had it analysed at the hospital labora-
tory when I first came. The boys stop here
twenty times a day just on account of that
well."
"Some of them do it for an excuse to play
with the children," laughed the captain.
"Perhaps," I agreed. "The other day there
was a crowd here and they had a circus. Got
out an old invalid chair they found in the barn.
One soldier sat in with the baby on his lap, and
the whole crowd chased round and round the
center flower-bed with puppy yapping at
their heels. They even mobilized the chick-
ens!"
"Wisht Ah'd beTsn heah," put in Daniel
[182]
WHERE IS JACK?
Finney. "Ah 'd a cotched one ob dem chick-
ens an' we 'd a broiled it. 'Scuse me, Mis'
Gibbons, if Ah takes nuther drink ob dat
watah."
"You stick to that kind of drink," said the
captain, "and I '11 never put you in the guard
house again for beaucoup zigzag/^
"Ah ain't a drinkin' man, Cap'n, you knows
dat. Ah says gen'ly to de boys to jes drink
enuf ob dis yeah vinn blank dat dey kin take
keer ob it an' not so much dat de drink '11 take
keer ob dem."
Mimi came skipping over, carrying an Al-
satian dollie by the foot. The captain tossed
her up in his arms. She hugged him enthusi-
astically.
"Who is sweet?" said the captain.
"It 's me! Captain, do you know where is
Jack?"
"Jack? No, dear."
"He is gone!" Shaking her head and hold-
ing up her forefinger, she emphasized her
[183]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
words. "And I don't know where is he at all,
at all, at all r
"Mimi's concern for Jack is as deep as her
Enghsh is picturesque," said the captain.
"Where are the other children?"
"Gone off for the day. A truck stopped
here this morning. The driver was an Ameri-
can Indian with fire in his eye. He told me
that homesickness for his little boy in America
was more than he could bear to-day and he
wanted to borrow two of my children."
"You let him have them, did n't you?"
"Yes. He said that before anything could
happen to those children he would be a dead
Indian. When they pulled out, he was tuck-
ing Christine and Lloyd in with his overcoat
and Lloyd was asking him why he did n't wear
feathers. You see Lloyd is like a French boy.
He has got his ideas of American Indians from
Wild West pictures at the movies."
We sat on a garden bench with Mimi be-
tween us.
[184]
WHERE IS JACK?
"Come on and tell us about Jack," said the
captain.
"I did see him the first time at the hospital
when he was a sick boy and I did take him for
my good soldier."
"I did take him," the captain smiled at me.
"Yes. Mimi does not yet attempt past
tenses in English. She gets around by con-
jugating with *did.' "
"He did call me to come quickly," said Mimi.
"And I did love him wit' all my heart."
"Why did you love him?" asked the captain.
He took out a cigar. Mimi wanted to light it
for him.
"I do it for papa," she said, dropping the
match on the grass.
"Why I did love Jack? Because he would
hurt the Germans and he would n't hurt me."
"What did Jack do to make you love him?"
asked the captain.
"He did remember mint sticks when he did
say it, and he did play and sing for me and
[185]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
did n't stop. He did play the piano. He did
tell me stories about serpents and litta boys.
Serpents — ^like serpents, but not truly ser-
pents. He did tell me another story of a big
thing that would come at night and would get
on the back of a soldier, and that soldier was
Jack when he was dreaming. It did scratch
and bite him. Jack has such a pitty face and
eyes that laugh. Mama, will you tell Jack to
come again?"
"Um-um."
"I 'd rather you 'd say yes or no, comme
fa. Sometimes um-um means yes and some-
times it means no."
"Mimi is all for precision, isn't she?" asked
the captain.
"Precision, is dat Fwench? What does it
mean?" she chuckled.
"Go ask Daniel Finney," suggested the
captain.
Mimi hopped down and ran away to where
[186]
WHERE IS JACK?
Daniel Finney was adjusting the ropes on the
flag-pole.
"Where is Jack?" asked the captain.
"That 's just the trouble," I answered.
"We don't know, and Mimi asks everybody
she meets, whether they have seen him.
"Jack was a Savenay patient. He had
shell-shock, and was a bit queer — nothing vio-
lent or irresponsible. He just acted dazed,
and seemed to be forgetful and apathetic. I
was at the hospital one day, with Mimi, and
left her talking to some boys while I went to
see the colonel about something. When I
came out, I found Mimi perched on the coping
of the wall, dangling her little legs, and with
one arm around the neck of a marine. *This
is Jack, Mama,' she said, *and I love him and
I am going to take him home with me.'
"Jack used to come out almost every day to
the Little Gray Home. I suppose he got a
lift mostly, but I know he often walked the
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THE LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
whole distance. He would sit around for
hours reading and talking to Mimi. Then
after a couple of weeks, he sat down at the
piano one day, and played and sang. He
had never mentioned music before. He got
better after that, and was more cheerful and
animated. He would play with the kids, and
helped them dig trenches and a dug-out and
put up a tent.
*'Then suddenly he dropped out of our life.
We have heard nothing more of him. He has
been sent home or back to some light job in
the S. O. S., and will certainly write to us.
But poor little Mimi asks every soldier she
sees, 'Where is Jack? Do you know Jack?' "
"The boys who have shell-shock or who have
become unbalanced through the strain of fight-
ing are a difficult proposition for the A. E. F,
to handle," said the captain. "Few of them
are really insane — very few, and in most cases
nerves are on edge without really affecting the
mind, that is in the sense of loss of control of
[188]
WHERE IS JACK?
one's mental processes. It is a cloud, happily
a temporary cloud, as in the case of your Jack.
If only we could have a Little Gray Home
and a Mimi for each case, cure would be
rapid."
"And you can't always tell certainly which
are mental or shell-shock cases in the hurry of
evacuation," I said. "Just after the briUiant
drive from Chateau-Thierry to Fismes, I re-
ceived a letter from a friend of my brother's
who complained that he had been sent to a
hospital for mental cases by mistake. He
wrote, 'AH the patients here are nuts, and the
doctors are nuts, too. They 're worse than the
patients.' This made me wonder. So I read
the letter to the colonel at Savenay, pausing
after this extraordinary statement.
" *Sure proof that the man's sane!' com-
mented the colonel, laughing heartily. He
called over the major in charge of mental cases,
and made me reread the statement to him.
'Look out. Brown,' he said. "You see what
[189]
THE LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
the patients think about those who care for
them.' "
"The colonel was right. It 's hard to deal
with mental cases without reflecting in your-
self their condition," said the captain.
"Did you ever talk to a brain specialist?"
I demanded. "I met one once on a railroad
journey, and he was explaining mental cases
in the army to me. He said that the line be-
tween sanity and insanity is slightly marked
for all of us, and small things may push one
over the line. The doctor insisted that he
could tell a crazy person when he saw one, and
that I 'd be astonished if I knew how many peo-
ple are crazy. 'I see cases all the time,' as-
serted the doctor, *and the funny thing is they
don't know they 're cases.' The doctor was
eyeing me narrowly. 'You can't fool me,' he
said. By this time I 'm sure that he and I
thought the other mentally unbalanced."
The captain wanted to inspect the flag-pole.
I went into the house to finish my mail be-
[190].
WHERE IS JACK?
fore the postman came. When I came out
again into the garden I couldn't find the
captain.
"Ah think de boss is in de kitchen," said
Daniel Finney. "Yes, um, he went obah dere
wid Miss Mimi a minute ago."
There he was, bending over the stove.
"You Ve caught me," said he, laughing.
"I 'm looking in the sauce-pan to see if there
is enough for me to stay."
The truck came back with the children.
"I 've had my lunch," said Christine.
"And Lloyd," said the Indian soldier, "won't
want any. He 's eaten too many ginger
snaps."
"I ate in a tent," said Christine. "A soldier
made hot cakes for me. There were some
more soldiers there, too," she went on, "playing
cards with match sticks."
When the captain got ready to leave he
could not find the men who had come with
him. We discovered them in the garden back
[191]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
of the house, lying on the grass in the sun.
They had gone there after their lunch.
"Feel at home, don't they?" said the cap-
tain. "My men work long and hard and the
little breathing space will make them better
soldiers. I thought I deserved the fuss
you 've made over me to-day on account of
my cablegram. Don't forget that enlisted
men are not the only ones that need to be
treated special."
[19a]
CHAPTER XX
WHEN WE GET BACK
If I am more at home one day than another
it is Sunday. The decree went out from our
general-in-chief early in the game that as
far as possible throughout the American army
in France the Sabbath must be a day of rest.
Boys turn up at the Little Gray Home at any
hour, according to their passes. Just after
lunch I was sitting in the summer-house when
four boys on bicycles wheeled by. As they
passed the window, I waved to them.
"Hello, sweetie!" shouted one.
The children ran out and invited the sol-
diers in. Mimi took two of them by the hand,
and led them over to where other soldiers were
sitting under a tree. I heard her say, "I like
you; you 're my soldier."
[198]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
"American children. Good Lord ! It is six
months since I have seen any," said one.
When Rosahe brought out glasses and things
for lemonade, Christine came skipping over
to get mother to come. I sat down beside
the tray and began to put slices of lemon into
glasses.
"I can't wait another minute to ask you to
forgive me for, for — what I said."
"Oh, you 're the boy that called me sweetie,"
I exclaimed.
"Yes, ma'am. I 'm ashamed of myself. I
did not know you could imderstand English.
If I had known there was an American mother
and her children in here, I never — "
"Never mind, my dear boy, I forgive you.
In fact I am old enough to be nearly flattered
that you said it. Do you like jumping lemon-
ade?"
"Jumping lemonade! What's that."
"It's one of our family institutions. My
mother invented it. You take a slice of
[194]
WHEN WE GET BACK
lemon in a glass, put in sugar over it, then you
jump on it with your spoon like this, until you
get a lot of juice. Then you pour water on
it."
"You 'd use ice water if you were home,
Mrs. Gibbons," said the boy who was a D K E
at Yale in my brother's time.
"You would that," confirmed the cow-
puncher. "Down in Texas we — "
"Say, are you from Texas?"
"I sure am. We 've got the greatest cattle.
Look at that."
He drew from his wallet a grimy treasured
postal card showing a giant bull,
"That there animal measures six feet four
inches from tip to tip of his horns 1"
The lad from Virginia gave me a smile.
"Buddy," he said, "I guess your creed is: I
believe in Texas."
"Funny the difference of opinion about
Texas," said the D K E from Yale.
"There's an- orderly in my company who
[195]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
used to be a traveling salesman before he en-
listed. He has been down that way, and puts
his feehng about the State something hke
this, *If I owned Texas and hell, I would rent
Texas and live in the other place!' "
The cowpuneher found a more sympathetic
listener in the lad from Virginia. I heard the
cowpuneher tell the lad from Virginia that the
D K E from Yale was "one of them rattle-
headed guys you find in this man's army."
"Speaking of home, what are you boys go-
ing to do when you get back there?"
"Oh, gee!" cried the cowpuneher, "after I
get back to punchin', if the Statue of Liberty
ever wants to look at me again she 's got to
turn around."
"I see," said I, "you 're a regular home boy,
aren't you!"
"You said something, ma'am, you said some-
thing!" He waved his glass around, and
handed it back for more lemon to jump on.
"When we get back, there 's one thing sure,"
[196]
WHEN WE GET BACK
said the D K E from Yale; "the slackers and
the slickers will have nothing to do to save
themselves but go and hide. There are no
slackers in our house," he went on; "they
could n't get more out of our family unless they
took mother. My brother is in aviation,
sister's husband is an artillery oflScer, and
dad's on a battleship looking for submarines."
"Slickers? What are slickers?"
"A slicker is a guy that sits in a swivel chair
in Washington," said the cowpuncher.
"Like a pal I have down to the camp," put
in a Minnesotan. "Red is his name. He is
Irish. When Red goes home, he says he in-
tends to get three jobs. When the boss looks
cross-eyed at him, he will quit — ^just to show
he can quit. He is going to a restaurant near
the dock in New York. Will order a planked
steak for three. Not on a plate either — he
says he wants it on a platter. When the waiter
asks him where the other two are, he will slap
his chest and sing out that he is the other two."
[197]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
"I 'm going to get me my same job when
I go back," said the lad from Virginia. "Paid
me two hundred dollars a month,"
He emptied his purse, and counted his
money,
"Twenty-five, thirty-five, forty-five, fifty-
five centimes — that 's eleven cents — except the
American nickel, but there won't any Frog
git that."
George Dayton and Ralph Lind joined us.
"I think when I go home," said Ralph, "I
could be a laundry clerk in some hotel. I 've
been fighting French laundresses down at our
camp. I 've had to make out slips to be used
as a pass into camp. Also lists stating the
prices the women are allowed to charge. I
found they were asking thirty cents to wash an
O. D. shirt, and one man got stuck ten francs
for getting an army blanket washed. You
know I am provost-sergeant, and all those
troubles are put up to me to solve in the old
army game of passing the buck. We could
[198]
WHEN WE GET BACK
not afford to pay excessive prices, so I hit
upon this scheme. When I landed a French
interpreter to explain to the laundresses what
the passes were for, they cried. Said we were
trying to cheat a lot of hard-working women,
and they could not aflford to do the laundry
for less. But they did need our money, and
finally a couple of them accepted the army
terms. Next day the rest of them came
around and were glad to get a chance at a
pass at any price. I had instructed the guards
to keep them all out unless they had one.
See? Well, it all runs smoothly now, and they
call me the father of the laundry bill."
"Laundry clerk in a hotel ain't such a bad
job," mused the cowpuncher. "You could
live there maybe, anyway git your chow. I '11
be soon back to my punchin'. Eye's gone bad
— I was in a mustard attack up the line. Gee,
it was fierce. Before that the worst I 'd known
was a mouthful of Bull Durham — yankin' my
handkerchief out of my tobacco pocket, see?"
[199]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
"I tell you, Mrs. Gibbons," said George,
"when we go back to the States we can't go
far wrong if we stick to work that has to do
with the primary needs of humanity. We 'U
have to get back to the beginnings of things
not only in the sense of starting all over again
ourselves, but also in the kind of jobs we look
for. Got to steer clear of what the French
call a metier de lucce,"
"Got to cut out high-brow stuff, ain't we?"
agreed the cowpuncher.
"Sure," said George, moving over and sit-
ting down beside the cowpuncher. "You see
what I mean."
War brings together men who would never
have known each other before and friendships
are born on a new plane.
"Will our girls get us there? What do you
think about it, Mrs. Gibbons?"
"You mean," said I, "will the American girl
be content with plain living and willing to
work hard?"
[200]
WHEN WE GET BACK
"Yes," said George, making room for Titine
beside him and stopping to fix her hair ribbon
for her, "yes, but more than that. Take it
hke this — soldiers, men from all walks of life,
have learned the lesson that they can get along
on nothing at all. And have a good time, too.
See here ! Failure to reduce living to simplest
terms, lack of self-sacrifice and lack of unity,
won't win the war. Failure to reduce living to
simplest terms, lack of self-sacrifice and lack
of unity, when we marry our girls and found
our homes — won't win the future. Every fel-
low you know thinks about j ust two things, the
war to-day and home to-morrow, when we have
cleaned up the job, the home he 's got or the
home he 's going to make."
"You fellows that are university guys and
hang around New York can write your girls
that they are going to find you just like I am,"
said the cowpuncher. "When I git home, I 'm
goin' to be damn easy to git along with."
[201]
CHAPTER XXI
THE SINGING HEIGHTS
I have been reading a profound analysis of
French feeling written by Margaret Deland
in an American magazine:
But after that, the dark. And after that, the
dawn! It is a Hope! ^ons off, perhaps, but a
Hope. The Hope of the upward curve of the spiral
after it has dipped into the primeval. Back again,
these people say, to the beginnings of things, must
go our miserable little civilization. Back to some
path of realities, to wash us clean of an unreality
which has mistaken geographical boundaries for
spiritual values, and mechanics for God. Then, up
— up — up — toward the singing heights.
It took sturdy courage to speak plainly the
truth about French feeling last winter! ^ The
"bath of realities" was of blood and pain.
[202]
THE SINGING HEIGHTS
Through suffering France has become intimate
with God and remembers her immortal soul.
My little neighbor, Fran9ois, with eyes
sunken deep in the sockets, tells all this in his
look. Francois' older brother, Andre, came
the other morning to ask me to walk over to
the farm, "To look at Fran9ois' earache," he
said.
I went up the road with Andre, through a
break in the hedge to find a path leading over
a little bridge, and through Fran9ois' father's
meadows to the crescent-shaped group of stone
buildings that forms the center of the farm.
French peasants house their animals close to
themselves. As we came toward the front
door, I pointed to the white cross on the wall
of the house near the door.
"I have been told that when that sign ap-
pears on a Brittany house it means somebody
is lost — dead at the war. Is that true,
Andre?"
"There 's nothing in that," he replied stol-
[203]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
idly. "It 's where my father tries his brush
when he whitewashes the rooms in the spring-
time."
'*WTio does the whitewashing now?" I in-
quired.
"Always my father. He did not have to
go to war. We are ten children."
We entered the low, dark kitchen where
the family lives. Madame Clouette, a wiry
woman with anxious, brown eyes, was stirring
gruel. She took it safely off the tripod, placed
it on the stone platform of the fireplace, and
came forward to greet me.
"It is heaven's pity to disturb Madame,"
she said, drawing out a chair and dusting it
carefully, "but Madame knows there is no
doctor and we must turn to the Americans."
I sat down by the bed and asked Fran9ois
if he was a good boy.
"Yes, when he is asleep," laughed his mother.
"He is of a will power — it is unbelievable^
Madame!"
[204]
THE SINGING HEIGHTS
**Why are you so skinny, Fran9ois-boy?" I
asked.
I took his hand and felt his little fore-arm.
"Andre told me you have fifty-four cows. Do
you drink lots of milk?"
"Will power again, Madame. He won't
drink milk. Your children are city children
— probably they love it."
"How old are you, Francois?" I asked.
"Eight years," said he, eying the shiny nickel
case of my thermometer.
"Good," said I, "then you have sense enough
to hold this in your mouth without biting it.
My boy is only seven and he knows how to
keep a thermometer under his tongue."
"Poor child," said his mother; "he hasn't
slept these two nights. The pain gives him
a fever."
"There, rran9ois, do you know what time
it is in your mouth? It 's a hundred and four.
Never mind, old man, it means we 've got to
help you get rid of that pain."
[205]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
''His temperature, is it bad?" asked the
mother. "Madame will send for a doctor?"
I telephoned to the hospital when I took the
eggs to market. The interpreter answered
that I must get the Dame du Chateau to come,
and if she said so they would send down a
doctor.
"Yes, yes," I assured her, "Andre must take
his bicycle and hurry to the village and tele-
phone. Make haste, Andre. Tell them to
send the ambulance to the chateau and I will
show them the way here."
Madame Clouette was all of a flutter. Her
feelings were mingled, fear for her boy and
pride that a splendid American ambulance had
drawn up beside her manure heap. Relatives
gathered to listen and watch.
"I 'm afraid I '11 step on some of these kids,"
said the doctor. "What 's the trouble? You
see we got tired chasing away out here to look
at mild little cases. You handled that last
bunch of measles as well as I could. I knew
[206]
THE SINGING HEIGHTS
you wouldn't mind our passing the buck to
you. Yom* preliminary diagnosis saves pre-
cious time for us. We are always glad to
come, you understand, when it 's necessary,"
he added hastily.
"There is big trouble here. I think this
kid has an abscess in his ear. What makes me
concerned is that swelling back of the ear."
The doctor was examining busily, saying,
"All right, little fellow, we won't hurt you."
He straightened up and said, "Just as you
said, an abscess; worse than that — may be
mastoid, you know. I can't take the respon-
sibility of this case. We must have Gracy
out here. Carpenter!" he called, "would you
mind going right back to the hospital for
Major Gracy?" (I have yet to hear that doctor
command anybody. He dispenses with "mili-
tary stuff.")
An American car makes seven kilometers
and back in no time. When he arrived, the
ear specialist thought quickly. "Prepare
[207]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
them," he said to me. "I must operate to-
night."
I called the father and mother and explained
that the doctors must have more instruments
and electric light. ''To make a thorough ex-
amination, dear Madame Clouette." I had
my arm around her shoulders now. She was
looking at me intently. Monsieur appeared
with glasses and a bottle of applejack. "Dis-
tilled this myself," said he, "the Christmas
Francois was born." I declined gently for
the doctors without asking them. Monsieur
poured a glass for himself and tossed it oflf
easily. He wiped his walrus mustache, and
disappeared.
"Tell me what they say. O Madame, I
can bear it, only be frank!"
"Are they afraid of an operation?" said
the specialist. "It 's his only chance." He
handed me a silver funnel to wash.
"No, no, no, she 's all right. Did you no-
tice that the daddy went away? Women
[208]
THE SINGING HEIGHTS
don't need suffrage in France. They 've vir-
tually had it since '70."
"If we have to take him to the hospital, are
you willing, Madame?"
''Otdj Madame." Her eyes were tearless
and the voice was steady.
"It means an operation, you know."
"I understand. They will let me come?
O Madame, I am bold — you will come with
me?"
"What is she saying?" asked the Doctor.
"She is a brick!" I exclaimed. "My soul —
the mothers of France ... I"
I bundled the boy up and took him in my
arms
Come, sonny," I said, "the doctors are go-
ing to give us a ride in their automobile.
Mother is coming too. We are going to take
you to the hospital to stop the pain. They
have lemon drops there. Do you know what
lemon drops are?"
At the receiving office, two orderlies ar-
[209]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
ranged Francois on a stretcher, and gave his
pillow and blanket back to his mother. Three
or four poilus stood smoking at the door. I
explained to them about Fran9ois and brought
them over to talk to him and his mother.
"You are a soldier?" asked one. "Poilus are
well off in this house," said another.
I was giving name, age, etc., to a sergeant at
a desk. He came to a place where the printed
slip said rank. . . .
"Ask him what rank he wants to have," I
called to one of the French soldiers.
Even his mother laughed when the little fel-
low answered promptly, "Me? I 'm a lieu-
tenant. Lieutenant Fran9ois Clouette." He
took my hand and smiled.
"Of a will power," his mother had said.
We put Fran9ois in a ward with poilus.
The fellow in the next bed called Fran9ois
"mon vieux," and as the mother and I left, he
was telhng Fran9ois cheerily, "Thou art
lucky, little one, to be in this hospital. The
[210]
THE SINGING HEIGHTS
Americans are our brothers. After the war
I shall go to the United States to get Yankee-
fied myself."
The next day I was going into the wards
with the Red Cross searcher, Miss Crump, to
read to the patients. I saw Francois about
noon. They had put him in a private room
with a special nurse. He was just coming out
of the ether, and recognized me. Poor lamb,
the operation had been one of the worst known
to ear surgeons.
Ten days later I went to the hospital to be
present at a consultation on Francois' case.
The incision was healing nicely. But Fran9ois
was coughing. Was it pneumonia or were we
up against an abscess in the lung?
"I am glad you come," said the Major.
"You can tell madame straight about Francois.
She 's been here with him ever since his opera-
tion. All I can make out is that the woman
sincerely appreciates what we are doing for the
boy. Do you know," he continued, "if she had
[211]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
to pay for this care in a big city back home it
would cost her a hundred dollars a day?"
"Uncle Sam's pockets are deep and the
hearts of his nephews are very warm," I said.
* 'Doctor, if you save this boy it will be a
feather in your cap, and do you realize what
good propaganda for America that will be?"
"A physician is never inspired by any other
thought than saving his case," responded the
major gravely. **His reward is having the
opportunity to fight for a human life."
Fran9ois' day nurse came in with another
doctor. She had been out to the tent hos-
pital to get the tuberculosis man.
The doctors began their consultation. Half
an hour later. Major Gracy turned to me and
said, "It is not pneumonia, and there will be no
further trouble from the ear. Pus has got into
the lung. A new abscess is there. Tell
madame."
"Will he pull through?"
"We do not know."
THE SINGING HEIGHTS
"Dear Madame Clouette," I began; "you
and I know we have a very sick little boy
here."
The two doctors stood quietly watching me
as I translated their opinion.
"I know, I know, Madame. Was I not here
during those five dreadful hours yesterday
when he was unconscious ! Did Madame hear
Prinquiau church bell this morning? The
cure will say nine prayers for him to-day."
"She is a wonder, that little mother!" said
Major Gracy, "but there is no use telling her
yet that the child is clearly the product of
alcoholic stock and therefore is practically
sure to get tuberculosis, if not immediately,
then later. It 's fifty-fifty whether we can
save him now. His father's applejack will do
for him later. Oh, the ravages of Brittany
alcohol!"
rran9ois' bird-claw hand fluttered toward
his throat. Aroimd the bandaged head lay a
rosary. His mother fixed it for him. He
[213]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
wheezed and coughed and tried to speak. He
looked to Major Gracy and held out his hand.
Then he spoke.
"Dite^, mon vieiuv/' said he, ''donne-moi une
cigaretter
''What 's that?" said the major.
**He wants to smoke. Doctor," I laughed.
The major got a Camel out of his pocket,
and gave it to Fran9ois. "Tell him not to
light it," said he. "The way the kid goes up
and down is beyond belief. We '11 save him
yet."
The next time I saw Fran9ois he made his
mother give him his toy basket from the win-
dow sill. He fished around in the basket and
found a Lucky Strike box. With trembling
hands he opened it.
"Look, Madame, one, two, three, four.
Every time I don't cry when the major dresses
my head he gives me a cigarette. I '11 light
them when I get home."
"Andre sat up with Fran9ois last night to
[214]
THE SINGING HEIGHTS
let me sleep," said Madame Clouette. "An-
dre says he won't be a curate when he grows
up. He wants to be an American because
they have cigarettes."
"I can't let the major get ahead of me,
Fran9ois," I said. "I '11 give you a cigarette
because I love you. Help yourself."
"A silver case is better than a pasteboard
box — I '11 keep that, too."
His mother gasped. I beckoned to her.
We went into the corridor.
"Let him have it, Madame," I urged. "We
don't dare cross him if we can help it while
he has that temperature."
Fran9ois lingered all summer. An abscess
developed in a tooth that had to be extracted.
Then another on the leg. Week after week
we did not know. In August fifty-fifty
changed to forty-sixty, and then thirty-seventy,
with Fran9ois on the winning side.
September found the boy living in a tent.
In the daytime his bed was out in the sun-
[215]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
shine. He was still pitifully thin, but his
cheeks were rosy and the bandages had gone.
He had a whole box of lemon drops always on
his table now and could eat two every day.
American soldiers love kids. They spoiled
Fran9ois lavishly. He told me that one day
his friend the aviator came coasting down the
clouds and did the loop-the-loop for him.
**Just up there!" he cried, pointing with a
finger that was steady now.
We took him home the first of October.
Major Gracy came to dinner with me after-
wards. In the evening I read him Margaret
Deland's article.
"If I 'd read that before I came over here,
I should not have understood it," said the
major. "The unquenchable spirit of the
French. Everything against them, enemy
hordes sweeping down to ravage and burn and
poison, and the handicap of past sins and weak-
nesses to make more difficult, more compli-
cated, the problem of resistance. They have
[216]
THE SINGING HEIGHTS
held to life through their will power. They
know they are going to triumph in the end
— they have known it all along. Victory is
in sight after they have been down, down,
down. rran9ois is France."
"And those who have not been close to the
world cataclysm, who have not lived with
France in her agony, call Mrs. Deland a pes-
simist," I answered. "But she ends up her
analysis with *the singing heights.' We have
taken Francois home after all these long
months in the valley of the shadow. Who
would dare say that the suffering which could
not crush his spirit has not touched his soul?
It must be like that, it is hke that, with the
French nation. De profundis — ''
The major completed my thought. "To
the singing heights," he said.
[217]
CHAPTER XXII
EIGHT RUBBER BOOTS STANDING IN A ROW
"Are you very tired to-night, Madame?"
asked Alice, when I came home from the hos-
pital.
"Why?"
"Shortly after you left this morning a small
convoy stopped, three trucks and four soldiers.
They were boys that you know. The man in
command of the convoy calls himself Bill —
your funny little English name — one of the
tallest of soldiers and with laughing eyes.
You told me he had a Western accent. Re-
member?"
"The others?"
"I had them write down their names in the
guest-book."
[218]
EIGHT RUBBER BOOTS
"I see. Was there a message?"
"Disappointed not to find you — so disap-
pointed I told them to stop on their return to-
night. They said they would be late. That 's
why, cMre Madame^ I asked if you were
tired."
**I hope you said they must stop, Alice!"
"I told them if they saw a light in the study
window — "
"Good."
Soldiers that make regular trips past the
Little Gray Home I call "steadies." Bill is
a Stanford man who usually travels with an-
other known as Curly. They go to a forestry
camp with provisions for the "jungle stiffs," as
the soldiers that cut lumber in forests are
called.
I was reading by the study fire. It was
after ten.
Chug -chug -chug — footsteps — voices.
They know the latch of the door.
"Bless you, Mrs. Gibbons — ^you will never
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A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
know what it means to us to come into the
study without knocking. This is a corner of
home."
Bill sure enough, and Curly with him.
Rain-drops glistened on their goggles, and
their shoulders were wet.
"Two new friends for you," said Bill,
"Robert and Eddie. Every time I come here
I bring a couple of new buddies."
We shook hands all around, and settled into
steamer chairs.
"They don't provide steamer-chairs and sofa
pillows in the army!" said Eddie, lifting an-
other cushion from the floor, and bunching it
comfortably under his head.
"How about the feet?" I asked, "pretty
wet?"
"Soaked! Gee, think of the chilblains next
winter!"
"If I can get one of the organizations work-
ing for the army from the human point of view
to take over the Little Gray Home when I have
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EIGHT RUBBER BOOTS
to go back to Paris, I will leave some jars of
chilblain stuff here for you."
"Never heard of anything that would help !"
"Yes, there is something!" I urged. "Boil
chopped-up carrots in lard, then strain into a
jar. It works all right. Better take off your
boots," I added, "and toast your toes while
you can."
Laughing and tugging. Soon eight rubber
boots were standing in a row against the wall,
and on the floor were marks of wet stockings
going every which way.
"Those organizations you were speaking
about," said Bill, "are accomplishing marvels.
I have seen the good they do here in France
with my own eyes and in many places."
"They can do everything," broke in Curly,
"but treat a soldier special."
"Sure," said Robert, "and like as not it
amounts to some glad-hand artist doping out
sunshine stuff. Gosh, Mrs. Gibbons, there 's
lots of things a fellow would not do when he 's
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A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
lonely if he could get to the Little Gray Home
first. Organizations are on the job, all right,
but they can't handle the proposition that
every man-child born is something special.
There are too many of us for that. This place
is an oasis. You reach a comparatively small
number of men here, Mrs. Gibbons, so what
you do is real."
"The reason the Little Gray Home idea has
worked out is that the boys do more for me
than I do for them."
"Can't you see, Mrs. Gibbons," said Bill,
"that the painted woman of the street knows a
lonely soldier is soon parted from his money, if
that is the only comfort he can get? You get
there first. "You get under a fellow's skin
not by fussing, not by elaborate hostessing, and
not by condescension. You flash a vision of
home before us! I have seen rough-necks
come in here and undergo a subtle change.
They tune up their conduct to the pitch of an
[222]
EIGHT RUBBER BOOTS
American home. Mrs. Gibbons is for the en-
listed man, and the fellows know it."
"You bet you!" cried Curly. "She makes
friends with you exactly as if you were a civil-
ian. If you are a university man, she gets
you. She doesn't care that you are only a
damn buck private. If you 're a rough-neck,
that does n't matter either. A fellow who
comes here is busy, frequently tired, and some-
times sullen, or tingling with resentment be-
cause he is a round peg in a square hole. His
lieutenant is perhaps not half the man that he
is and has given him a raw deal."
"Don't make me sprout wings like that.
You know if you want people to like your
friends, you must n't praise them too much. I
want Eddie and Robert to feel like coming
back another time. Bill, don't you want to
look in the cupboard there and get some can-
dles? They are in a tin box on the second shelf
to the left."
[223]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
Bill snuffed out old candle stumps with new
ones.
"Candles!" said he, "kind of takes you back
to your grandmother's time you can't remem-
ber. I come from a Western ranch. We
have a farm lighting plant on the ranch. Dad
harnessed up our waterfall, and we make our
own electricity. Before I came into the army,
candles were something that lived on birthday
cakes and Christmas trees."
"Makes a pretty light, though," said
Robert; "there are lots of inconveniences that
we are getting used to."
I was putting sugar in the bowls. Robert
started the bread and butter around.
"I think it is a pretty poor stunt," said I,
"to give you boys coffee at eleven o'clock at
night. What you really ought to have is hot
chocolate. It 's much more nourishing, but I
can't get it."
"Say, you can't get chocolate?" said Curly.
[224]
EIGHT RUBBER BOOTS
Turning to the others he went on, "Let 's bring
her some of that chocolate we ranked the other
day/'
"Here, I want to get that word. Ranked —
what does it mean?"
"We drive our trucks along docks. Nig-
gers are unloading ships. A fellow drops a
box off his wheelbarrow. It cracks open, and
the stuff gets scattered on the railroad tracks.
We have motor trouble accidentally on pur-
pose, and when we shut up our tool-box again,
in goes a bunch of chocolate boxes with the
tools. We rank that chocolate, see? You
don't steal anything in the army, you rank
it."
"Nice little habits we '11 take back to the
States!" said Bill. "When I was home and
dinner time came, if I didn't like what was
there I 'd get up and walk out of the house.
Eat somewhere else, see? After I enlisted,
they made me cook for a while. Wheel
[226]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
When I get back, I '11 eat any meal my wife
is good enough to set on the table. I should n't
care how greasy it was."
"Say," said Eddie, "after the war, when we
go home, we 11 be sitting in the little old
cabaret, and when the clock says nine-thirty,
we '11 just naturally beat it. That 's some-
thing we 're going to do for months."
"That 's what we 've got to do now," said
Bill; "beat it."
"Before I leave," said Robert, "I want to
give you something."
He got out his purse.
"Promise me never to give it away." He
handed me an American penny.
"The only cent I had on French soil for six
weeks!"
[226]
CHAPTER XXIII
GOING HOME
"You all are leaving us when we need you
most. Winter 's the worst time for fellows
on trucks," said Joe. The sergeant from
Kentucky had brought a pal to show him the
Little Gray Home. The Y chief of this
base and a secretary from Akron, Ohio, had
dropped in for tea.
"But, Joe," I urged, "the chief here thinks
I have started something, and when the north
wind blows and the rain comes slanting down
to make the road ooze with mud you will still
have hot coffee and a good fire at the Little
Gray Home."
"Gives me a fimny feeling, too," said the
chief. "This house surely looks like moving
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
day. I wish you were twins, Mrs. Gibbons.
I am having a devil of a time finding somebody
to take up your work."
The chief was born in Ireland. He is a
good scout, the best Y. M. C. A'ster I know.
Jolly and wise and human. You wouldn't
believe him if he told you his age any more
than I do. Khaki uniforms do not hide big
men. Big men we want over here. None is
too big to handle the business of looking after
our boys.
The secretary from Akron, whom I had
picked out to take over my job, broke up a
bundle of fagots and started a fire. From
my steamer-chair beside the tea-table I spread
out my hands to the blaze.
"They say any fool can build a fire," said I,
"but it takes a philosopher to keep one burn-
ing."
"Mrs. K. and I have done heaps of camping
together," he answered, squatting down and
tipping the tripod until it was solid and level
[228]
GOING HOME
enough to hold a saucepan of water for our
tea. "I 'd jump at this Little Gray Home
job if I had her over here. She 'd make this
place hum."
I was sympathetic. "Of course we under-
stand that all wives can't come. If some did
others would want to, naturally. We must not
get a howling mob of incapables over here.
But it is tough on the work you are doing that
some wives of secretaries are lost to us. A
man and his wife in a Y. M. C. A. hut could
do the work of three secretaries because they
understand each other and are used to working
together." I warmed to my subject.
We were comfortably settled by this time,
waiting for the water to boil. Madame Criaud
brought bread and butter.
*'I want to organize an American Woman's
BattaUon. Two would be better, one for
Home Service and the other to replace men
who fret back here in the Service of Supphes.
Why do we let Englishwomen get ahead of
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A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
us!" I cried. "We could follow the telephone
service by taking over most of the clerking
work. We could even be truck drivers. Eng-
lish girls are. It 's no experiment. In my
scheme there is a Woman's Postal Battalion
with home and foreign sections. Make the
requirements :
"a. She has money of her own or needs to
earn a living;
"b. She has a college or high school educa-
tion or business experience;
"c. She has a brother, father, lover, or hus-
band in the army.
"Women would know they had a better job
than knitting. And you bet the boys would
get their letters. Then, women's colleges
could form hospital units. They could do all
the typing and paper work and think how val-
uable woman's genius for detail would be in
keeping records for hospital statistics. Bryn
Mawr could take over all that work at Base
Hospital Number 8, Smith could take the hos-
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GOING HOME
pital at the Holy City, Vassar the one at the
City of the Edict, and so on. As Abe and
Mawress say in the Potash and Perhnutter
stories, *Am I rrrrright or wrrrrrong?' "
The chief and the secretary from Akron
beamed indulgently. The chief, however,
kind and just when it comes to the other fel-
low's ideas, observed: "I know that is one of
your hobbies, Mrs. Gibbons. There 's some-
thing in it, too, for it would release for the
front a lot of those boys who sing rather bit-
terly,
^Mother, take down your Service flag,
Your boy is at — ' "
The secretary from Akron, Ohio, was away
off somewhere. **She could make it hum. I
know she could," he murmured.
I started to pour. Madame Criaud went to
call daddy and the children.
"Ready for tea. Daddy?" I asked.
"We are nearly through out there," he an-
[231]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
swered. "Just got the roll of bedding.
Don't forget, no sugar for me, please."
"The chief and I are going to help the boys
load that baggage into the ambulance.
You Ve done enough. Doctor," said the secre-
tary from Akron, Ohio.
The kids with their hats and coats on were
sitting in a row on the croquet box. Baby
was having her bread and milk in the kitchen.
"What have you there, son?" asked daddy.
"School books," said Lloyd.
"Better give them to me, dear, to put in my
bag."
"No, Daddy," said Lloyd, "I need 'em."
"When these children were babies we read
guide-books to help us decide where to go
next," said daddy. "Now there 's no question
about it. The first of October means home."
The problem of getting my establishment to
Paris was solved for me by the lieutenant at
the Motor Reception Park. He told me the
next convoy could take all of my baggage.
[232]
GOING HOME
"What would look like a lot to you would be
lost in one of our trucks. We can take your
stuff just as easy as not," he said. The lieu-
tenant's thoughtfulness made it possible to
make the journey "in two jumps." Daddy,
who had been here for a week's vacation, would
take children, governess, and servants with
him, and leave the baggage to me. Letters
from Paris have been saying that the grippe
and yet more reduction in the number of trains
are compelling summer people returning to
town to wait sometimes eight days for the lug-
gage. Congestion of traffic this year is in-
creased because none knew till the last moment
whether schools would open. Our notice from
the Ecole Alsacienne came only a week ago.
Now the family would travel light-armed —
suit-cases and the baby's bedding-roll would go
into the compartment with them.
Joe poked his head in the door.
"How about pulhng freight?" said he.
We piled into the ambulance and were off
[233]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
for the station. The Y men came along to
help. Mimi was on the front seat of the am-
bulance. Joe's pal, who has a little girl go-
ing on six, took her on his lap.
"Look how riding along fast makes Henry
Ford swing on his perch!" cried Christine.
"Oh! Watcha give it that name for!"
laughed Joe; "that 's not made of tin; that 's
a pretty white bird — dove of peace."
"What shall we have for a name, then?"
asked Christine. " 'Cause, you did n't know?
— Henry laid an egg yesterday and Mama
says we have to change his name."
The most dignified sergeant in the army is
the railroad transport officer at the Savenay
station.
"The Paris train is on time to-day, Doctor,"
said the sergeant; "it will come in on the first
track. If you will all just wait here by the
news-stand, I will find you a compartment."
Lloyd was the last one of the crowd to get
into the train. I had to drag him away from
[234]
GOING HOME
a poster showing a life-size poilu, wresting the
last silken folds of the flag from the clutches of
the German eagle.
" S-o-U'S'C-r-i-v-e-z a V-e-m-p'r-u-n-t.
What's that, Mama?"
"It means give your pennies to the poilus.
Hurry, darling!"
The locomotive was telling us the last sec-
ond had come by ringing a bell — so we knew it
was American.
A French sailor ran from the hydrant where
he had been filling his canteen — he lifted Lloyd
up to daddy. The train moved. American
soldiers in cattle-cars, hitched on at the end,
were singing,
"Where do we go from here, boys,
Where do we go from here?"
[235]
CHAPTER XXIV
U. S. 911,350
Truck No. 911,350 swung up the road and
came to a full stop in front of our house. I
ran out to see who had come. Sergeant
George jumped to the ground and saluted.
He has hair the Color of taffy and is headed
soon for the officers' training school.
"You have done lots of favors for us boys,"
said he; "now we are going to do something
for you."
"The boys are always doing things for me.
That is why the Little Gray Home idea has
worked out. Who is the other boy with you?"
"Don't know him very well," said George.
"He knows you though. He 's been cooking
in the colonel's mess. The last time you
lunched there, he says you went out into the
[236]
U. S. 911,350
kitchen and washed your hands at the sink.
The boys still remember how tickled you were
with the hot water spiggot. Say! people at
home don't yet realize what women like you
have been up against, keeping house on the
edge of the world's battle-field." He
wrenched the big iron hook off the other half of
the gate, and called to the boy in the truck.
"You can back her in here if you go easy.
Mrs. Gibbons, we will just run the truck close
to the door so we can load your stuff. This is
Zim, who is detailed to convoy the truck to
Paris with me,"
The boys piled my baggage in the back end
of U. S. 911,350. George roped the canvas
flap down solidly at the back of the truck. I
was satisfied that none of my bundles would
drop off. Zim was at the wheel putting on his
gloves. George came around the front of the
machine to make sure that the saucy celluloid
Kewpie doll was securely tied to its place on
the radiator.
[287]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
"You '11 have a fine trip," said I.
*^We will have a fine trip, I '11 tell the world,"
said he. "Why don't you come along?"
"I '11 do it," said I.
It took two minutes to put on my things and
arrange with Madame Criaud about the key
to the house. U, S. 911,350 moved slowly and
carefully through the gate. George was sing-
ing:
*'We were sailing along,
On Moonlight Bay."
We were saiUng along, too, on the road to
Savenay. Above the hum of the motor, I
heard Zim say: "You didn't suspect you
were going to be kidnaped and taken back
home to Paris like this."
We pulled up for a few minutes in front of
the hospital. I hurried in to say good-by and
to get the handsome sergeant-major to take
my papers to be stamped by the M. P. The
head nurse and other friends came out to the
car with me. My boys from the garrage,
[238]
U. S. 911,350
across the road, had crowded around to take a
look at the long-heralded Liberty motor. Not
till then did I realize that I was going to have
the honor of riding to Paris on the first Liberty-
truck. The boys explained that the Liberty
truck is supposed to be like a certain type-
writer, a combination of all the good points in
other machines. The only criticism I heard
them make was that you have to transfer your
gasoline from the reserve tank in a pail. You
ought to be able to pump it.
It was n't easy to say good-by. It has been
a happy summer. Aunt Patty, as the chil-
dren called the head nurse, gave me her coat
and leggings. Busy people always have time
to do nice little things. The colonel came out
of his office, and said cheerfully: "We don't
like to make a scene right now, but our hearts
are broken."
U. S. 911,350 moved slowly.
"Come to me for Christmas in Paris," I
cried,
[239]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
Now we were well under way, and, like
Uncle Wiggly Long Ears, were looking for an
adventure. George and Zim are young, but
too old to know the Garis stories about Uncle
Wiggly Long Ears, the rabbit gentleman who
puts on his tall silk hat, takes his red, white,
and blue barber-pole rheumatism crutch, leaves
Nurse Jane, his muskrat lady housekeeper, and
goes out to look for an adventure.
Before dark we did sixty kilometers. We
arrived at Nort, a village you never heard of.
Backing U. S. 911,350 to park it in the yard
of the Hotel de Bretagne brought us our first
adventure. The chassis of a Liberty motor is
long and the wheels far apart. The truck
bumped into the gate and knocked down some
of it. It made a hole in the grating and pulled
down the solid wall that was only plaster — for
all the world like showy f a9ades in Turkey.
"Gee! I thought a German bomb had hit
that gate," said Zim, when we were sitting
down to dinner. A bald-headed little French-
[240]
U. S. 911,350
man was the only other diner. We bowed and
shook hands all around. George whispered to
me, "What do you bet his profession is?"
"Traveling salesman," I answered.
We named him Uncle Willy. Uncle Willy
made a noise when he ate his soup, but his ob-
servations about peace talk were shrewd. The
boys fed him cigarettes. Cigarettes are scarce
in rural France these days. You make a
friend instantly if you begin conversation by
opening your cigarette case. Good and abun-
dant food is also scarce. And we had a-room-
for-more feeling after dinner was finished. I
could think only of bowls of tilleul to fill in the
chinks. That would at least give us something
hot, and an excuse to continue eating bread.
Madame might have enough sugar to make it
satisfyingly sweet. Madame had no sugar.
Uncle Willy rose, gave his napkin another safe
hitch into his waistcoat, got out the keys on the
end of his watch chain, and unlocked a little
trunk which sat on two chairs in the corner.
[241]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
Sure enough, it was a sample trunk, and from
it Uncle Willy produced sugar for the tilleul.
Zim nearly choked, and George had to say
something funny quickly.
We left Nort the next morning before eight
o'clock. Zim cast his eye cautiously now as
we turned narrow corners in the village streert.
He was afraid of taking down more walls.
"You can testify, Mrs. Gibbons, that it was
made of plaster. They will surely try to make
Uncle Sammy pay with honest concrete.
These Frogs," continued Zim, between puffs at
a dope-stick (a Fatima cigarette in soldier
slang) , "these Frogs don't pay any attention to
traffic. Walk right along where they are go-
ing, and drive old nags and donkeys without
listening to horns. The way they cross streets
down at the Holy City made us tired long ago.
It 's risky for 'em now. For we 've gotten
over paying attention, either."
"That 's all right. You 're learning French
[242]
U. S. 911,350
ways," I answered. "You know in Paris, if
you get run over, it 's your fault."
"Gee! that is a back-handed way. Do you
mean that? . . . Well, I never I"
"Yes, you have to defend yourself for get-
ting run over — they will arrest you for it."
"For the grown-ups I don't care. But the
kids. Say, Mrs. Gibbons, the other day I was
going through a narrow street. A little girl
ran out from the curb. She was n't more than
four feet ahead of the front wheels. Brake
and horn were no good. I did the only possi-
ble thing — made a sharp turn to the left. I
grazed the little thing enough to make her fall
over, but she was n't hurt."
"What happened to you?"
"Stuck to the seat of the truck and came up
inside a cafe. Smashed it."
"You must have stirred up some excite-
ment," said I.
"Well, I should say! The owner was very
[248]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
polite. Complimented me on my good judg-
ment— kid was his, see?"
"That was generous of him."
"Was for a fact. But — ^there was a fat
Frenchman in there drinking. He held his
beer glass up high and backed till he sat down
on a hot stove. Burnt the seat of his trousers
clean off. He was the only person in the
crowd that got mad."
"You will think you ought to have had your
life insured before you trusted Zim's driving,"
said George. "But I take my life in my hands
every time I ride with these French chaujSfeurs.
We delivered a bunch of cars, Fords they were,
on the French front last week. I am reminded
more and more of the difference between riding
with a Frenchman and an American as illus-
trated in this story: When you are with an
American and you have a puncture you say,
'Oh, hell, there goes a tire.' When you are
with a Frenchman you say, 'Thank God, that 's
only a tire.' "
[244]
U. S. 911,350
We "plugged right along," as the boys put
it, all morning. At noon we came to the vil-
lage of St. Georges.
"What do you say we get some coffee here
to make us hold out till Angers," proposed
George. "I '11 stand treat because of the name
of the place."
U. S. 911,350 went slowly through the street
— ^there was only one street — and we were look-
ing for the best place. The Inn of the Red
Hat took our eye. When we entered, we
found ourselves in a dark kitchen with a row of
burnished copper saucepans above the fire-
place. Madame, in a spotless white cap, was
blinking her eyes and singing an incantation
over a pot on the fire. She shut savory steam
back into the pot with the hd and turned to
shake hands with us. Monsieur was smoking
a brown clay pipe near by. The daughter
came bustling in from the tiny dining-room
where she had arranged bowls and bread and
Gruyere cheese. As we sat down at the larger
[245]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
of the two tables, we noticed another tiny one,
set with white cloth and special china. The
table napkin had embroidered initials.
"What do you know about that!" exclaimed
Zim
"Must be a star boarder," I ventured.
"Something smells awfully good," says Zim,
I asked Marie what was in the air. Marie
explained : ''Civet de lievref
"What the dickens is that. Let 's have
some !" said George and Zim together.
"Bunny stew," said I. "This means we '11
not try to hold out till Angers."
A French lady took her place at the special
table. George nudged Zim's elbow and whis-
pered: "Star boarder."
She explained to me that she had come here
early in April. "Much better to be in a little
place like this off the beaten track. Big hotels
on main routes are impossible these days for
good food. Americans everywhere! I ran
away from the Grosse Bertha," she laughed.
[246]
U. S. 911,350
"Just happened in for lunch the way you did
to-day, and I 've stayed ever since."
When we got back to U. S. 911,350 a boy
scout was on the truck. He jumped down to
the pavement, and greeted us in very good
Enghsh. He told us that immediately upon
the entrance of America in the war he had be-
gun to study it by himself. Since then he 'd
had lots of chance to practise. As we pulled
up the street, I looked back. He was stand-
ing there, still saluting.
We reached the motor park in Angers about
two o'clock and found Lieutenant Black in his
oflSce. I had been wishing to meet him all
summer. Boys coming through from Angers
and going through my place have all said of
him, "He 's a prince !" He told me about his
special barracks and the extra beds in his own
room where he makes boys comfortable when
they stop there with convoys.
Loud detonations came from the square in
front of the barracks buildings. "Target
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
practice makes a terrific noise, does n't it?" said
the lieutenant. "Want to see the boys fire?"
The lieutenant's office was near a big gate in
a stone wall. "The Blank Teenth Engineers
are stationed here." Squads with bayonets
were moving out of the gate. Others were re-
turning from a hike. They had on gas masks.
Another group came in with bath towels and
wrung-out washing over their arms.
"This place is a busy one," said the lieu-
tenant. "They are shipping men right to the
front all the time."
"Dear me," said George after we had left
the lieutenant, "those boys going to the front!
Some contrast to us who have to stay in the
S. O. S. Oh, but, Mrs. Gibbons, you have n't
met Robby. Robby isn't itching to go to
the front the way we are. He never gets mad
when the Y. M. C. A. secretary tries to com-
fort fellows here in the Service of Supplies by
telling them, 'Somebody has to do it, you
know.'
[248]
U. S. 911,350
"The other night the Sergeant brought in
some letters. There was one for Robby.
Robby 's twenty-eight and drafted. He was
reading along. Suddenly he jumped up, put
his hand to his forehead, and shouted, *The son
of a gun !'
**We watched him, amazed. He went on
talking: *They 've rejected my brother on ac-
count of having false teeth. Look at me.'
Here he pulled out his own full upper set,
waved it around in one hand and the letter in
the other."
From three p. m. until eleven we made one
hundred and six miles. Our one stop was at
La Fleche. Here we met a Y. M. C. A. sup-
erintendent of construction. While the boys
helped him repair his Ford, I found a cafe on
the square, and ordered bread and coffee.
When the boys came in, they found me talking
with the young girl who had prepared coflFee
for us.
[a49]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
"What have you been saying to make her
blush so, Mrs. Gibbons?"
^'Nothing much," I answered. "I simply
told her she was too pretty to stay single and
wanted to know why she did n't get married."
Dimples had slipped out to the kitchen and
now came walking back into the cafe, holding
hands with a poilu.
"For goodness' sake, boys, look at this; she
is introducing her fiance to us."
But my boys are not interested in prospec-
tive matrimony. When they saw that the girl
— a pretty little thing, she was — had eyes only
for her own soldier, they were ready to start,
and we got under way.
We were not yet out of the village, when
George said, "Look what I got cranking that
Y man's Ford."
"Some swell finger," commented Zim; "bet-
ter get something to put on it."
The middle finger of poor George's left hand
[250]
U. S. 911,350
was quivering with pain. The nail was al-
ready black. I gave Zim my hot water bottle
and told him to run back and ask Dimples to
fill it. George and I found a pharmacy.
Just as the pharmacien finished dressing the
finger, Zim came speeding across the square.
"They don't even know what a hot water
bottle is," he shouted. "How do you tell them
to pour in hot water? I unscrewed it, and
made the proper motions. Nothing doing.
00-la-la, when I get back to camp I simply
must study this lingo."
At Le Mans we stopped at the motor park to
find the way out of town. It was a pity the
dark came so quickly, for all we saw of the
cathedral was a pile of black stone. We talked
with two soldiers who, curiously enough, were
both from Ohio and both called Anderson.
They said a truck was just leaving in the Paris
direction and all we had to do was to follow.
We could see only its little red tail-light.
[251]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
"That fellow must have taken his governor off
and put the seal in his pocket. He 's going
some," said George.
"For all the world like Tinker Bell in Teter
Pan/ " said I. "And just about as hard to
foUow."
Follow we did. U. S. 911,350 nearly came
to grief a thousand times in the ten miles'
chase between the town and the crossroads
where Tinker Bell stopped. Tinker Bell
trudged across the pebbly road till he came
to the side of our truck. Swinging himself on
the step and peering at us through his goggles,
"Pardon me," said he — "do you know where
we are?"
"Why, Tinker Bell," I exclaimed, "are n't
you ashamed of yourself! We thought you
knew the way. They told us at the park to
keep right along with you until we reached
some crossroads where you would leave us and
we would make a sharp turn to the right!"
"Is that what you call me — Tinker Bell?
[252]
U. S. 911,350
Not so bad! I 'm about as good a guide as
that flighty fairy might be. The first time my
mother took me to the theater, it was to see
Maude Adams in Teter Pan.' "
"Let 's figure it out on the map," suggested
George. He felt back of the gasolene tank
for his map. It was gone! Tinker Bell un-
packed his pockets to find another, and soon
the boys were poring over it together.
"Seems as though somebody had taken a fist-
full of Nogents and scattered them all over the
map of France," observed George. "Here's-
Nogent-le-Roi, Nogent-le-Rotrou, and No-
gent-sur-Eure."
"And Nogent-Villars," added Zim, placing
his forefinger on the outspread map.
"Well, any way, it 's this Nogent-le-Rotrou
we 're making for," said George. "I will just
get my search-Ught and take a look at the sign
board."
With astonishing rapidity and confidence
they worked out the way. I have no sense of
[253]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
direction. After a smoke. Tinker Bell left
us and went back to his truck. When we got
to the sharp turn (luckily we had been on the
right track the whole time), Tinker tooted a
lusty and friendly farewell and disappeared
into the night.
It was long past dinner-time, but we had
decided to cut out "eats" in order to cover
ground. About nine-thirty we came to a
group of houses hardly big enough to be called
a village. We stopped for a rest and a bite.
I got to talking with the woman who brought
us food and came upon the universal tragedy:
her only son killed last month in the big offen-
sive. Weeping bitterly, she protested that she
could not take our money for the bowls of hot
milk.
"Ah, my poor Jean," she sobbed, "he was
tall and straight and blue-eyed like the soldier
there. It is for him. These boys must avenge
his death. Twenty-one boys from this village
of Saint-Mars-de-Brieres are dead."
[254]
U. S. 911,850
When we pulled into La Ferte Bernard it
was eleven o'clock. Zim and I waited in the
truck while George tried to wake somebody.
We could see him inside the hotel archway-
flashing his searchlight on doors and knocking.
Finally a man and his daughter appeared, ex-
cited and dismayed because they already had
twelve inilitaires Americains in the house.
"Come on in," called George; "she thinks the
Americans at the coast have broken loose and
are all going to the front."
When I came into the dining-room next
morning my two boys were there before me.
"Good morning!" said George, "We got a
hustle on and the truck is all ready to start as
soon as we finish breakfast. I was just saying
to Zim that if a fellow saw this floor when
he 'd been drinking — "
The floor was made of tiles, gray diamonds
and black diamonds fitted into one another.
It gave the effect of cubes with retreating cor-
ners, forever mounting.
[255]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
"He 'd think it was a staircase," observed
Zim, "and would try to walk up it."
We had made such an early get-away from
La Ferte Bernard that by the time we reached
Nogent we were ready for another breakfast.
Here we had a dainty and delicious meal, just
coffee and bread, but so good and pleasantly
served by a mother and her daughter who run
a cafe alone. The father is at the front.
While we were ordering the breakfast, George
went over to a barber shop to get a shave. He
had come back now and was beginning to eat
when a rosy-cheeked boy, dressed in white linen
coat and apron, ran in and handed him a one
hundred franc note.
"I had n't missed it!" exclaimed George, as
he fished in his map-case to get out cigarettes
for the boy. "That reminds me," said he.
"Wait a minute. I must buy another map."
"Let me pay for it," I begged; "then I can
keep it as a souvenir of the trip."
George and I talked about Chartres. Zim
1256}
U. S. 911,350
was for speeding. He wanted to hurry by all
the cathedrals between Nogent and Paris.
But when he saw the spires of Chartres he
jumped out first and made for the cathedral.
In the end we had to drag him away. We
could not remain in our medieval dream.
There is no place in France to-day where the
war does not thrust itself upon your attention.
As we left Chartres, aeroplanes were whirring
and doing trick flying all over the town.
But now we were all three for speeding.
Paris had to be made by evening. I had in-
vited guests for dinner, and they would be
waiting for us. We had no time to see the
chapel where Louis XIV married Madame de
Maintenon. We hurried through Rambouil-
let, skirting the forest. We went through
Versailles before it was too dark to see the
thousand French autos parked in front of the
Palace. Paris drew us. Over the Seine at
Boulogne, and along the ugly avenue that leads
to the Point du Jour. The Arc de Triomphe
[257]
A LITTLE GRAY HOME IN FRANCE
loomed before us. In the gloaming it seemed
to be floating, detached from the hill. To me
it was coming home. And to the boys ? They
were under the spell of the world's fairy city.
We coasted carefully down the Champs Ely-
sees into the Place de la Concorde.
At the Little Gray Home I had not been
reading the newspapers. My cry was of
amazement as well as of joy. For the first
time since August, 1914, I saw the Place de la
Concorde ablaze with light. There were can-
non everywhere, German cannon — cannon that
had been silenced forever by our victorious
armies. The Place was black with Parisians
who had come to see what is the most eloquent
testimony of the change of the past few months,
a change wrought by the presence of the Amer-
ican army in France, by the Georges and Zims
who had come from the New World for the
crusade of the twentieth century.
THE END
[258]
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