Part 5 (2/2)

The ceremony began with a fanfare by the trumpeters. As the last notes came tumbling back from the hills Petain moved forward. We found that he was not so tall as Pers.h.i.+ng nor quite as straight. The French leader is also a little gray and about his waist there is just a suggestion of the white man's burden. But he is soldierly for all that and his eyes are marvelously keen and steady. His tailor deserved a decoration. The general wore only one medal, but that was as large as the badge of a country sheriff. It was a great silver s.h.i.+eld hung about his neck and indicated that he was a commander of the Legion of Honor. He stopped in front of the first officer in the little line waiting to be honored and spoke to him for a moment. Then he pinned a red ribbon on his coat and kissed the man first on the left cheek and then on the right. The doughboys looked on in amazement.

”Well, I'll be d.a.m.ned,” said one under his breath, ”it's true.”

Four men received the red ribbons, but the other three were down only for the military medal which is a high decoration but less esteemed than the Legion of Honor. No kisses went with the green and yellow ribbons of the military medal but only handshakes. Petain stopped in front of the old sergeant at the end of the line and looked at him for a minute without speaking. Then he called an orderly.

”This man has three palms on his croix de guerre,” said Petain.

Now a palm means that soldier has been cited for conspicuous bravery in the report of the entire army.

”The military medal is not enough for this man,” continued Petain. ”Step forward,” he said.

The old sergeant trembled a little as he stood a tiny, solitary gray figure in front of the whole division.

”Bring back the trumpets,” Petain commanded and for the lone poilu the fanfare was sounded again.

”I make you a chevalier of the Legion of Honor,” said the commander in chief of the French army to the old sergeant, and after he had pinned the red ribbon to his breast he added a hug to the conventional two kisses. The poilu moved back to the ranks steadily, but as soon as the general had turned his back the sergeant pulled out his handkerchief and wept. The soldiers greeted their comrade with cheers and laughter.

”Now,” said Petain turning to Pers.h.i.+ng, ”let's take it easy for a little while. I've seen plenty of reviews.”

The French general walked across the s.p.a.ce cleared for the review and began to talk with people in the fringe of spectators gathered around the edge of the meadow. He talked easily without any seeming condescension.

”How are you, my little man?” he said, patting a boy on the head. ”In what military cla.s.s are you?”

Encouraged by his father the boy said that he was in the cla.s.s of 1928.

”Oh,” said the general, ”that's a long time off. We shall have beaten the Boches before then.”

Next it was a peasant girl who attracted his attention.

”Where have you come from?” he inquired with as much apparent interest as if he were talking with a soldier just back from Berlin. ”That was a long walk just to see soldiers,” he said when the girl told him that she lived in a little village about ten miles distant. ”But we are glad to have you here,” he added.

And so he moved on down the line with handshakes for the grownups, pats on the head for little boys and kisses for little girls. He turned back to his reviewing station then and the French troops swept by with brave display: They were very smart and brisk, horse, foot and artillery, but Petain found a few things to criticize although he mingled praise generously with censure. He told the officers to know their men and to get on such terms with them that the soldiers would not be afraid to speak freely. He told of reforms which he planned to introduce in the French army. He favored longer leaves from the front, he said, and better transportation for the poilus.

”I shall have time tables made for the men on leave,” he said and then for an instant he became the shrewd French business man rather than the das.h.i.+ng general.

”I have figured out,” he explained, ”that the army can afford to sell these time tables for five sous. It wouldn't do to give them away.

n.o.body would value them then.”

A week later we had another visitor. French generals and all their resplendent aides clicked their heels together and stood at attention as this civilian pa.s.sed by. He was a short stoutish man in blue serge knickerbockers and a dark yachting cap. His tailor deserved no decoration for this seemed a secondary sort of costume and headgear in a group loaded down with gold braid and valor medals. But their swords flashed for the man in the yachting cap and a great general saw him into his car, for the stoutish visitor was the President of the French Republic. Generals Petain and Pers.h.i.+ng accompanied Poincare in his car up to the drill ground. It was an American division which marched this morning. In fact it was the same unit which had marched through the streets of the port only a few months before. They had grown browner and straighter since that day and they looked taller. Group consciousness had dawned in them now. The only lack of discipline was shown by the mules. It must be admitted that the mule morale left much to be desired.

Many were new to the task of dragging machine guns and those that did not sulk tried to run away. Strong arms and stronger words prevailed upon them.

”Remember,” the driver would plead, ”you have a part in making the world safe for democracy,” and in a trice all the evil would flee from the eyes and the heels of the unruly animals.

A number of bands helped to keep the men swinging into the face of a driving rain. The French officers who accompanied Petain and Poincare were somewhat surprised when one regiment went by to the tune of ”Tannenbaum,” but General Pers.h.i.+ng explained that it had been played in America for years under the name of ”Maryland, My Maryland.” He had a harder task some minutes later when a band struck up a regimental hymn called ”Happy Heinie,” which borrows largely from ”Die Wacht am Rhein”

for its chorus.

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