Читать книгу An American Crusader at Verdun - Philip Sidney Rice - Страница 5
ОглавлениеThe Voyage
It was a glorious afternoon in Spring, to be exact, May 19, 1917, at about three bells, that the French liner Chicago moved out of her dock and started down the North river on the voyage to France, crowded for the most part with volunteers, entering various branches of service in the World War. There were doctors, camion drivers, aviators, ambulanciers—also a few civilians, half a dozen members of the Comédie Française returning to their native land and stage; and more than likely there were one or two spies. It was the largest crowd of “Crusaders” that had embarked for France since the war began.
The deck was crowded, too, with relatives and friends of those who were sailing; there was waving of flags, cheering and shedding of tears, and it was my observation that those who were being left behind took the departure harder than those who were leaving. But I suppose that is true when one starts on any long journey and I suppose it is especially true when one starts on the last long journey to a better world.
Those of us on the boat were not bound for a better world, we were just bound by going to help make the world a little better if we could. But some whom I met on the voyage have since passed on to a better world.
I am sure that most of the men on board were imbued with a spirit of seriousness. I was serious about the journey myself. Practically since the war began, I had been moved with a desire to get into it. I resented the invasion of Belgium, as have all red-blooded people, no matter what their nationality. I resented the murder of Edith Cavell; I resented the sinking of the Lusitania; I resented the atrocities committed, not against the people of any race in particular, but against fellow human beings; I resented the loud clamorings of white-blooded pacifists and Prussian propagandists who would have kept us out of war at any price, even at the price of honor. When I finally reached the decision to take a small part in the war and acted upon that decision by enlisting as a volunteer ambulance driver, I felt touched with a spirit of rest.
I did not know a single soul aboard when the liner cast off and backed out into the river. I knew quite a few before we reached Bordeaux. Shipboard is the easiest place in the world to make acquaintances, and being alone I drifted about, perhaps, more than if I had gone on board with a crowd of my own friends.
That morning in the Waldorf I had been told by Fred Parrish that a young fellow by the name of Meeker was going over for aviation and I had been told to look him up. A little later that same morning, while walking down Fifth avenue, bound for a bookstore to purchase a French dictionary and a volume of Bernard Shaw’s plays (I already had a Testament), I ran into my literary friend, Mr. George Henry Payne. It seemed perfectly natural to run into George on Fifth avenue—he seemed perfectly at home there. George is cosmopolitan—he is at home anywhere. He had sometimes been in my “Little Red House on the Hill,” my summer home in Dallas, Pennsylvania. “Darkest Dallas,” George called it.
This meeting with George on Fifth avenue has a bearing on my trip across. He informed me that a friend of his, a Miss Katherine G——, was sailing on the same boat. George told me to introduce myself to her and said he would communicate with her and vouch for the meeting. There was no time for a full description. George merely informed me that she was charming, though intellectual—that she had translated the works of Brandes into English and done a lot of heavy stuff like that. I confess I was a little terrified at the prospect of meeting Miss Katherine G——.
The boat was soon headed down the river and the crowd of friends and relatives on the dock faded from view, still waving farewell. Before we passed the Statue of Liberty I ran into Meeker—a fine, wholesome looking young chap—dressed in a light spring suit—a flower in his buttonhole. I saw a lot of Meeker before we reached the other side. He had spirit, and speaking of going as a “Crusader,” he remarked: “I would rather be a ‘went’ than a ’sent.’” At dinner I met a number of other fellows, among them a young aviator just out of Princeton. His name was Walcott.[2]
I only kept a diary for a few days. I found that everyone was keeping a diary. One day on deck I heard a man reading a page of his to an acquaintance and I heard him remark with a show of pride that the other fellows in his stateroom were keeping their diaries by copying from his. I heard him read: “Arose at seven o’clock, took a bath at seven-fifteen; had breakfast at eight, on deck at eight-thirty, sea is choppy.” And I thought to myself as I moved about the deck: “What an inspiring document to leave to one’s descendants.” So after about four pages of the brief one that I kept I find the following:
“I wonder what the intellectual Miss G—— looks like—whether she is prematurely old, anaemic or possibly has a tuft of hair on her chin. I have never read Brandes but he sounds heavy. I called on Miss G—— last evening after dinner. Ports were masked—curtains drawn, the decks were black except for spots of fire indicating a cigarette here and there. But in the darkness there was singing, and it was good, too. The submarines have not ears—only one eye like the witches in ‘Macbeth.’ I decided to call on Miss G—— and I approached her stateroom thinking of Brandes, of high-brow feminine youth prematurely blighted, of a tuft of hair and anaemia. The stateroom door was open and there were lights. The room was littered with roses and clothes and things. There was a feminine, human touch to that stateroom, but Miss G—— was not within. Perhaps she was on the deck somewhere among those cigarettes glowing like fireflies in the dark. I hastily tossed my card upon her pillow and returned to the deck. Miss G—— has not returned my call—I have not seen her to my knowledge.”
Later that first evening on board I went up into the smoking room and a cloud of blue smoke hung low over the occupants who crowded the room. They did not look like members of a peace commission—some were dressed in khaki, some wore yellow driving coats, one wore the uniform of the American Ambulance. Over at a corner table three French officers, in their light blue uniforms, were seated with ladies who I afterward learned were their wives. One of the officers wore the Croix de Guerre, which filled me with admiration and envy. At another table was a young French girl surrounded by admiring men. She was vivacious, possessed of a high color and beautiful teeth—even if she did smoke cigarettes. Her friends called her “Andree.” At another table a lively card game was going on—later I got to know the participants—Harris, Lambert, Bixby, Branch, Foltz and others.
Down in the music room it was crowded, too. Some one was playing the piano, and playing well. Altogether it was a likely looking crowd that I found on the boat.
Among my early acquaintances was a promising young poet who I was told had already begun to fulfil his promise. He was just out of Harvard and lived at South Orange, New Jersey. We discovered that we had some things in common—we both liked cigarettes and disliked white-corpuscled pacifists. We were photographed together by a friend. I have always been willing to have my photograph taken with a successful poet, providing he wore good clothes and did not wear long hair. I was glad to be photographed with Bob Hillyer. He wore a blue serge suit, a light blue necktie and had rather sad eyes, though I thought he was too young to have suffered much. The well-to-do never suffer much at Harvard. He had a slight cold and I prescribed for him out of a medicine chest which had been presented to me before sailing. The next day he told me he felt much better. I did not tell him that I discovered too late that I had given him the wrong medicine.
I met another young fellow who was not a poet. He introduced himself to me and said he had met me before somewhere. I could not recall the incident, though his name was familiar. On better acquaintance I got to call him “Bridgey” for short. He suggested that we take a walk around the deck, which was in darkness except for the cigarettes glowing here and there. “Bridgey” fell over a coil of rope before we had covered the starboard side, after which he inquired the number of his stateroom and retired for the night. The next morning he came to me and confided that he was rooming in a cabin with a begoggled person of strong religious propensities who had taken him to task for his levity of the night before. I inquired what form his levity had taken, and he confessed “I tried to feed grapes to him when he wanted to go to sleep and then accidentally smashed an electric light globe while taking off my shoe.” I tried to comfort him with the thought that religion was not merely a matter of goggles.
There were two fellows on the boat whom I was destined to know intimately later on after reaching the front. They were from Providence, Rhode Island. One was tall and slender and had red hair. His name I learned was Harwood B. Day. He will always be known affectionately to me as “Red” Day. The other was tall and slender and had dishevelled hair from constant reading. His name I learned was Frank Farnham. To me he will always be just “Farney.” Day was returning to the service after a visit in the States.
On a later page in my brief diary, from which I have already quoted, I find the following:
“Sapristi! I have just met Miss Katherine G——. She may be intellectual but she certainly is charming. She may have translated Brandes into English and done other heavy stuff like that, but she is not prematurely old. She is not anaemic and there is not a tuft of hair on her chin. She is young, she has black hair and black eyes and a kindly smile like a practical Christian. She is feminine. Her stateroom told the story—littered with flowers, clothes and things. If the boat is hit I shall certainly be one of several who will offer her a life belt.” There my diary ended.
The voyage was calm enough and without many exciting incidents. One of the passengers died. He was very old and feeble when he came on board, bound for his home I believe, in Greece. He was buried at sea early one morning before those who had gone to bed had risen.
Many passengers slept on deck while passing through the war zone. The ship’s concert took place a couple of nights before we landed. Many passengers stayed on deck during the ship’s concert. Miss G—— and the two aviators, Meeker and Walker, took part in a one-act play. I wrote the play originally but Miss G—— rewrote it because she said it was too “high-brow,” which convinced me that she was wonderfully human though highly intellectual.
Reaching France, we “crusaders” who had become intimate on the long voyage, which was all too short, went our various ways—some to aviation fields—some to camion camps—some to the American Field Headquarters at 21 Rue Reynouard, Paris, France. Some I have seen since—some I will never see again.
Coming out of an Eleventh Century Cathedral in Bordeaux with a couple of friends, I saw “Andree” pass by in an open carriage. She was smiling happily, showing her white teeth when she turned and waved to us as the carriage disappeared around the corner.
I last saw Meeker and Walcott in front of the Café de la Paix in Paris. I wished them luck in their undertakings for the cause. Meeker and Walcott, aviators, have since fallen on the field and I am sure the world is bound to be just a little better for the inspiring sacrifice they have made.
In Paris I met Frederick Norton, of Goshen, New York.
