Part 4 (1/2)
On leaving Rheims we pa.s.sed through various small hamlets where the houses had been entirely destroyed, and which now had the appearance of native villages, as the soldiers had managed to place thatched roofs on any building which had a semblance of walls standing.
At Villars Coterets the Garde Champetre sounded the ”Gare a Vous!” Four Taubes were pa.s.sing overhead, so we took refuge in the hotel for tea.
The enemy did no damage in that particular village, but in the next village of Crepy-en-Valois a bomb killed one child and injured five women.
At his headquarters next morning I had the honour of being received by the Generalissimo Joffre, and telling him of the admiration and respect which we felt for him and for the magnificent fighting spirit of the troops under his able command. He replied modestly by speaking of the British Army. He referred to the offensive on the Somme, and said, ”You may well be proud of your young soldiers--they are excellent soldiers, much superior to the Germans in every way, a most admirable infantry; they attack the Germans hand to hand with grenades or with the bayonet, and push them back everywhere; the Germans have been absolutely _stupefied_ to find such troops before them.” The General then paid a tribute to the Canadian and Australian troops, and told me that that day the Australians had taken new territory, adding, ”And not only have they taken it, but like their British and Canadian brothers, what they take they will hold.”
I explained to General Joffre that, whilst I was not collecting autographs, I had with me the menu of the dinner in the citadel at Verdun, and that it would give me great pleasure to have his name added to the signatures already on that menu. All the signatures were on one side, so I turned the menu over in order to offer him a clear s.p.a.ce, but he turned it back again, saying: ”Please let me sign on this side; I find myself in good company with the defenders of Verdun.”
At departing he said to me: ”We may all be happy now, since certainly we are on the right side of the hill” (”Nous sommes sur la bonne pente”).
In case this little story should fall into the hands of any woman who has spent her time working for the men at the front, I would like to tell her the great pleasure it is to them to receive parcels, no matter what they contain. Fraternity and Equality reign supreme in the trenches, and the man counts himself happy who receives a little more than the others, since he has the joy and the pleasure of sharing his store of good things with his comrades. There is seldom a request made to the French behind the lines that they do not attempt to fulfil. I remember last winter, pa.s.sing through a town in the provinces, I noticed that the elderly men appeared to be scantily clad in spite of the bitterness of the weather. It appeared that the call had gone forth for fur coats for the troops, and all the worthy citizens of the town forwarded to the trenches their caracul coats. Only those who are well acquainted with French provincial life can know what it means to them to part with these signs of opulence and commercial success.
It is perhaps in the post-offices that you find yourself nearest to the heart of ”France behind the lines.”
One morning I endeavoured to send a parcel to a French soldier; I took my place in a long line of waiting women bound on the same errand. A white-haired woman before me gave the post-office clerk infinite trouble. They are not renowned for their patience, and I marvelled at his gentleness, until he explained: ”Her son died five weeks ago, but she still continues to send him parcels.”
To another old lady he pointed out that she had written two numbers on the parcel. ”You don't want two numbers, mother. Which is your boy's number?--tell me, and I will strike out the other.”
”Leave them both,” she answered. ”Who knows whether my dear lad will be there to receive the parcel? If he is not, I want it to go to some other mother's son.”
Affection means much to these men who are suffering, and they respond at once to any sympathy shown to them. One man informed us with pride that when he left his native village he was ”decked like an altar of the Blessed Virgin on the first of May.” In other words, covered with flowers.
There are but few lonely soldiers now, since those who have no families to write to them receive letters and parcels from the G.o.dmothers who have adopted them. The men anxiously await the news of their adopted relatives, and spend hours writing replies. They love to receive letters, but needless to say a parcel is even more welcome.
I remember seeing one man writing page after page. I suggested to him that he must have a particularly charming G.o.dmother. ”Mademoiselle,” he replied, ”I have no time for a G.o.dmother since I myself am a G.o.dfather.”
He then explained that far away in his village there was a young a.s.sistant in his shop, ”And G.o.d knows the boy loves France, but both his lungs are touched, so they won't take him, but I write and tell him that the good G.o.d has given me strength for two, that I fight for him and for myself, and that we are both doing well for France.” I went back in imagination to the village, I could see the glint in the boy's eyes, realised how the blood pulsed quicker through his veins at the sight of, not the personal p.r.o.noun ”I” in the singular, but the plural ”We are doing well for France”: for one glorious moment he was part of the hosts of France and in spirit serving his Motherland. It is that spirit of the French nation that their enemies will never understand.