Part 23 (2/2)

Two soldiers were cooking there. Their tiny fire of sticks was built against a brick wall, and on it was a large can of stewing meat. One of the cooks--they were company cooks--was watching the kettle and paring potatoes in a basket. The other was reading a letter aloud. As the officers entered the men rose and saluted, their bright eyes taking in this curious party, which included, of all things, a woman!

”When did you get in from the trenches?” one of the officers asked.

”At two o'clock this morning, _Monsieur le Capitaine_.”

”And you have not slept?”

”But no. The men must eat. We have cooked ever since we returned.”

Further questioning elicited the facts that he would sleep when his company was fed, that he was twenty-two years old, and that--this not by questions but by investigation--he was sheltered against the cold by a large knitted m.u.f.fler, an overcoat, a coat, a green sweater, a flannel s.h.i.+rt and an unders.h.i.+rt. Under his blue trousers he wore also the red ones of an old uniform, the red showing through numerous rents and holes.

”You have a letter, comrade!” said the Lieutenant to the other man.

”From my family,” was the somewhat sheepish reply.

Round the doorway other soldiers had gathered to see what was occurring. They came, yawning with sleep, from the straw they had been sleeping on, or drifted in from the streets, where they had been smoking in the sun. They were true republicans, those French soldiers.

They saluted the officers without subservience, but as man to man. And through a break in the crowd a new arrival was shoved forward. He came, smiling uneasily.

”He has the new uniform,” I was informed, and he must turn round to show me how he looked in it.

We went across the street and through an alleyway to an open place where stood an old coach house. Here were more men, newly in from the front. The coach house was a ruin, far from weather-proof and floored with wet and muddy straw. One could hardly believe that that straw had been dry and fresh when the troops came in at dawn. It was hideous now, from the filth of the trenches. The men were awake, and being advised of our coming by an anxious and loud-voiced member of the company who ran ahead, they were on their feet, while others, who had been sleeping in the loft, were on their way down the ladder.

”They have been in a very bad place all night,” said the Captain.

”They are glad to be here, they say.”

”You mean that they have been in a dangerous place?”

The men were laughing among themselves and pus.h.i.+ng forward one of their number. Urged by their rapid French, he held out his cap to me.

It had been badly torn by a German bullet. Encouraged by his example, another held out his cap. The crown had been torn almost out of it.

”You see,” said Captain Boisseau, ”it was not a comfortable night. But they are here, and they are content.”

I could understand it, of course, but ”here” seemed so pitifully poor a place--a wet and cold and dirty coach house, open to all the winds that blew; before it a courtyard stabling army horses that stood to the fetlocks in mud. For food they had what the boy of twenty-two or other cooks like him were preparing over tiny fires built against brick walls. But they were alive, and there were letters from home, and before very long they expected to drive the Germans back in one of those glorious charges so dear to the French heart. They were here, and they were content.

More sheds, more small fires, more paring of potatoes and onions and simmering of stews. The meal of the day was in preparation and its odours were savoury. In one shed I photographed the cook, paring potatoes with a knife that looked as though it belonged on the end of a bayonet. And here I was lined up by the fire and the cook--and the knife--and my picture taken. It has not yet reached me. Perhaps it went by way of England, and was deleted by the censor as showing munitions of war!

From Elverdingue the road led north and west, following the curves of the trenches. We went through Woesten, where on the day before a dramatic incident had taken place. Although the town was close to the battlefield and its church in plain view from the German lines, it had escaped bombardment. But one Sunday morning a shot was fired. The sh.e.l.l went through the roof of the church just above the altar, fell and exploded, killing the priest as he knelt. The hole in the roof of the building bore mute evidence to this tragedy. It was a small hole, for the sh.e.l.l exploded inside the building. When I saw it a half dozen planks had been nailed over it to keep out the rain.

There were trees outside Woesten, more trees than I had been accustomed to nearer the sea. Here and there a troop of cavalry horses was corralled in a grove; s.h.a.ggy horses, not so large as the English ones. They were confined by the simple expedient of stretching a rope from tree to tree in a large circle.

”French horses,” I said, ”always look to me so small and light compared with English horses.”

Then a horse moved about, and on its s.h.a.ggy flank showed plainly the mark of a Western branding iron! They were American cow ponies from the plains.

”There are more than a hundred thousand American horses here,”

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