Читать книгу Jed's Boy - Warren Lee Goss - Страница 9

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Our first view of the land we had come to rescue was not prepossessing. Some men were standing on the sidewalks, as we marched through the narrow street ankle deep in mud.

“Are we in France, or in the mud?” facetiously queried one soldier. As we marched through the narrow streets there was much cheering—not like American cheers, long drawn out, but sharp and not all together. There were some personal allusions in English.

“I give you a kees;” said a girl. “You big fine Americans!”

The salutations were as unlike our home calls as were the city and its buildings. The buildings were crowded together as though land were scarce, they were of stone with carvings and copper ornaments, which even the soldier would notice, they were so fine.

We wanted to break loose and see France and talk to the people, but discipline held us in line. To men who had been confined for three weeks in narrow, stifling ship quarters, the air was invigorating.

We reached the station on schedule time, and were embarked on third class cars, a squad of eight men to a compartment. No dogs were allowed, but I got Muddy in all the same, the guard taking pains not to see him.

To Americans, accustomed to our large coaches, these little box-like cars seemed like toys.

“Sho!” said Sam, “do they intend to give us one apiece? They are like baby carriages!”

They were, however, fairly comfortable, but after jolting along for several hours, when the train stopped, naturally every one wanted to get out. Our officers had a full-sized man’s job to get them back again on time.

Peter Beaudett, a French Canadian Yankee, protested, “I was saying something to a fine leetle girl; she speak de French to me.”

Then we steamed on again, and after some hours we stopped at a station for hot coffee, then rode all night.

“I didn’t suppose,” said Sam Jenkins, “that France was big enough for so much travel.”

At last we stopped, and were told that we had reached our destination.

We had reached the “Base Station,” or “Rest Camp,” and went into quarters. They consisted of low, one-story, portable barracks, lightly built with dirt floors, white oiled cotton cloth for windows, and with wooden cots similar to those in our home barracks. Though not as luxurious by a big sight, they were comfortable. It was one of several similar camps on the outskirts of an inland historic city.

We took our ease for a few days, slept, ate, and visited the town when we could get a pass. None was allowed out of our well-guarded camp without one, and all must return at 9.30 P. M. or be punished. Then we began the routine of drill again, with French officers to teach us the new methods of fighting, such as bomb throwing and trench duty.

At retreat one afternoon we were informed that we were to be reviewed the next day. So after mess we shaved, bathed, brushed up our equipments and uniforms with unusual care, and with a French regiment for escort, marched and countermarched, with the stars and stripes flying and bands playing; and then marched some more!

The contrast between the French escort and our men was great. The French were different in many ways, some of them impossible to express in words. They were of inferior stature, many of them being not over five feet, two inches, and by contrast our men seemed giants. Their step was quick and brisk, while the strides of the Americans was a long, swinging stride, the step of men accustomed to hills and rough land, not that of good roads and pavements.

We were greeted heartily by the crowds of people gathered on the sidewalks and at the windows of the buildings. Cries of “vive les Amerique!” and other calls, that I did not comprehend, were heard. Flowers were thrown at us. But there were no long-drawn-out cheers such as we were accustomed to hear at home on similar occasions. After much marching and parading there came the order:

“Halt! Right dress! Front! Present arms!”

We were being reviewed by that great French soldier who, when the German hordes were marching on Paris, threw himself like a lion in their path and turned the current of the battle, General Pétain.

Some of us had read of him and looked with intense interest at this soldier of France. He was an erect martial figure, a little stout; with eyes keen, steady and penetrating, a white mustache, all the whiter by contrast with the darkening tan that told of long service in the field. No one could mistake him for other than a soldier; he bore that undefinable stamp of long service, discipline, and command of men.

Then we passed in review with our wagon trains, cannon, and machine guns, the people cheering in their way, and showering us with wreaths and flowers.

Even our mules, because they were American, came in for a share of attention. One fractious animal, that on account of bad conduct had been taken from a baggage wagon, drew attention by standing on his front feet and waving his hind legs and tail in the upper air, as though trying to make holes in the sky, and paint his displeasure with his tail. He was saluted with applause and laughter.

One thing was preeminently seen, we American soldiers held the hearts and minds of all. Later in camp we came to know more of our hosts.

The enlisted man has this advantage of his officers in learning to speak a language. He is not kept from trying to speak, by fear of making mistakes. He blunders on, and at last makes himself understood, though he makes fearful mistakes.

I was not long in the camp before I was hailed by a poilu who spoke the “American language.” He greeted me by saying, “How is little old New York?” He told me that he had lived there, but had come back when the war started to fight for his country.

One day while I was writing a letter to the home folks, with Muddy lying by my side, Jot, accompanied by a woman, the English-speaking poilu, and with a little girl in his arms, came to me saying:

“Dave, I want to show the dog to this baby and its mother.” So Muddy was put through his cunning tricks, and was played with and petted to his doggish heart’s delight.

At this time I was in my eighteenth year—broad shouldered, and five feet eleven and one-half inches in height. My uniform emphasized my stalwart form, now filled out and straightened by military training. Though I was never considered a big man at home, I felt myself, by the side of the smaller French soldiers, somewhat of a giant.

I stood up and saluted the little sad-faced woman and the “poilu”, and heard, or rather saw that she had asked some question about me.

“What is it she is saying?” I inquired.

“She wants to know,” replied the poilu, “if I knew the blond giant in America. Our people don’t know what a big country America is. They think it mostly New York city. You Americans are taller than our people but,” he added proudly, “my countrymen are big in courage and spirit.”

I remarked upon the large number of women who wore long crepe veils, when he replied, “Yes; there are many in mourning for their dead. This little woman had already lost two sons in this war, and has just now got word that her only remaining son had been killed in battle.”

“She is not crying,” I said.

“No,” he replied. “Her loss is too deep for tears, and she is consoled by knowing that she has given them to France.”

“Express to her my sympathy,” I said, and Jot added, “Tell her that we are very sorry indeed for her.”

Then seeing that she had made some reply, we asked what she had said.

“She said: ‘God gave them to me, and I have given them to France.’”

While this conversation was going on, a man came up and stood apparently intent on watching the child and dog, and seeming to give no attention to our talk. Then touching Jot on the shoulder and drawing him out of hearing, he began to talk to him, as though trying to get his consent to some proposal, and then moved away with him towards the colonel’s quarters in a nearby château. He looked to me like the same man I had seen talking to Jot at home when the horse trader visited us. I wondered at this, for Jot was not given to making chance acquaintances. Then I saw them disappear in the large house where the colonel had his quarters.

After undergoing intensive training for several weeks, we were thought fit to receive more practical and strenuous duties and practice, by being moved to real war trenches within reach of the guns of the enemy.

We in the ranks knew that something was up. The Eagle (colonel) had summoned our Skipper (captain), a clerk had copied a list of names that had been given him, and now all the officers were in with the eagle. The supply sergeant was already nailing up boxes, and the mess sergeant had been heard to say:

“I can’t see how the oven can be moved again”—all of which were signs to any soldier that our regiment was about to “pull out.”

We were all on tiptoe when the order came.

Every man whose shoes did not fit him got a chance to change them. Then a list of promotions was published and, to my surprise and pleasure, I was promoted to be a sergeant in place of one reduced. I was assigned to a loading detail by the top, and with nineteen men went to the quartermaster’s depot with an auto, and loaded up with ten days’ traveling rations, and hauled them to the depot. By ten o’clock the barrack bags came down, seven days’ rations were put in a freight car, and three laid out on the platform.

All was ready, and after dark the companies marched down to the station to entrain. I fell in line in my place on the platform with the rest. Then the mess sergeant and cooks dealt out enough “chow” (rations) for the corporals, so that each man had for his squad a can of beans, two cans of Willy (corn beef), and four packages of hard bread, and a can of jam.

“It has got to last you three days,” cautioned the mess sergeant; “so go easy on it.”

The top came along and checked every squad as it embarked. The officers shook hands with the railroad transportation officer and, together with the French interpreter, climbed aboard.

They were little box cars, and painted on the outside “32 hommes, 8 cheveaux.” There were portable benches at each end and a good lot of straw.

“Sure,” said Pat who was in my car, “it is comfortable enough for a pig.”

“Aw!” rejoined Shaw, “Cheveaux means horses, you wild Irishman!”

“AW!” REJOINED SHAW, “CHEVEAUX MEANS HORSES, YOU WILD IRISHMAN!”—Page 50.

Then we settled into the car; rifles in place, kits hung up on the sides, a lantern swung in the center. We were, despite all the growling, very comfortable. There was a seat for every man. All voted that it beat third class cars.

We reached a coffee station, and lined up outside the car in double ranks, and each man got a cup full of French coffee. Then came an all night ride. The men took off their boots and, with a haversack for a pillow, slept snug as bugs in a rug.

I slept, sitting up, with my back against the door, querying to myself if the buck private’s job was not easier than that of a sergeant. And I thought, possibly the skipper himself did not have so easy a time as I had sometimes thought.

The scenery was beautiful. We followed the course of a river. On the banks were old castles, beautiful châteaus, villages with red topped roofs, and always stone bridges.

“Say, boys!” exclaimed Sam, “we would have to pay big money for this sight seeing excursion, before the war.”

It was getting so interesting that we forgot to eat.

“Where are we going, Sergeant?”

“Don’t know.”

“How long will it take to get there?” inquired another inquisitive Yankee.

“Don’t know,” I replied, “there are three days’ rations on board, and seven in a freight car.”

“Don’t the skipper or eagle know?”

“Guess not; we are travelling on confidential orders; perhaps the eagle does know.”

So on through France we travelled, to heaven knows where!

At last we halted at a small station. An officer met us and inquired for the commanding officer. The train pulled in to a high platform, where we unloaded. We had reached the limits of our railroad travel. It was dark, and we were tired and hungry, with prospects of cold grub for supper.

We were assigned to billets by an American officer—stables, barns, stores and lofts. Some big galvanized cans of hot coffee were sent us by the officer of an American regiment already established.

“Thanks!” I heard the colonel say. “I hope to return the compliment some time.”

“You can return the coffee out of your ration tomorrow; it is the rule here to help each other.”

The most expressive part of our location was that for the first time, we were within sound of guns. We heard a dull boom! boom! and at times thought we heard the sharper sound of rifles. We were near the front at last, and were to get practical experiences in the trenches, further to fit us for the grim duties of soldiering.