Part 16 (1/2)

We followed meekly. The ladies in the box were awaiting us eagerly. They welcomed us with outstretched hands. And as I looked at those people who had been through two grilling years of war, I thanked G.o.d I came from a country that had taken up arms against a beast who was trying to crush the red poppies beneath his heel.

It was hard to get leave to go up to Paris. Sailings were uncertain and special permission had to be obtained, but I made up my mind I'd go.

General Pers.h.i.+ng was to be there for the Fourth of July celebration at the tomb of Lafayette. I knew that would be a never-to-be-forgotten sight.

I was right. It was a glorious morning and the thrill of the day was in the air--crowds everywhere--sky blue and navy blue uniforms rubbing shoulders with the khaki of our own boys. Women, many of them in black, hurrying--hurrying toward the spot where the great Commander-in-Chief of the American Expeditionary Forces could be seen.

”Pers.h.i.+ng!” Everywhere you heard his name and an under-current of eager whispers as to whether there would be a chance to see him or not.

The Fourth of July! Paris! And our General, the idol of the hour! I tell you it thrilled me clear down to my heels!

We navy men were let through the crowd and we were able to view the ceremony at close range. I have never heard such cheering in my life! It was Paris' first opportunity to hear our General speak, and he spoke so simply--so quietly--in the face of that great ovation that there was not one among us who could doubt his ability to lead our men as they had never before been led.

There were to be fireworks that night in honor of our presence--concerts and speeches and dancing. Oh, France was showing us that she was glad we had come, but how glad we were to be there she can never guess!

I drifted idly with the crowd. I wandered down to the big station--the _Gare de Lyons_. What took me there I scarcely know. Fate, I suppose, because there were a thousand and one places I might have gone instead.

The station was full of a bustling mob--uniforms--uniforms everywhere. A train load of soldiers had just arrived on leave from the Front. That was a sight for you, as their eager eyes lighted on some loved one's face! I tell you, it kept your heart jumping in your throat to see them.

Some of them were so white and worn and haggard. Most of them bronzed and wiry, a bit grimy from the long train trip, with uniforms faded and sometimes torn. But weariness and dirt and tears could not hide the spirit that shone in their eyes as they clasped their wife and little ones to them.

A young artillery officer came toward me. He was a handsome man with a bit of a swagger in spite of his limp. I saw his eyes roving the crowd restlessly in search of someone. Suddenly he caught sight of me.

”Ah! An American! What joy! _Vive L'Amerique!_” he shouted.

I thanked him. I told him my name and he told me his. It was Louis du Frere, and he lived at Faubourg St. Germain. He was just back from the trenches on a precious leave of seven days. Wounded? He shrugged. But, yes, fifteen times so far, and what of that?

I stared at him. Wounded fifteen times and yet eager to go back! Spirit of France, you are indomitable!

He excused himself as he scanned the crowd. His sister was to meet him.

She was there somewhere. She never failed him. Ah, yes! He had found her... .

I turned to see a little black-clad figure rush into his arms and cling to him as though she could never let him go. He spoke to her gently.

”Angele,” he said, ”this gentleman is a great officer of the American navy. Tell him how glad you are to welcome him to France.”

At that she whirled and since then I have never been able to see a red poppy without thinking of her. I don't remember what I said in my very limited French, but her brother broke in to explain that she had lost her young husband at the battle of the Marne and he ended up by announcing to her that I was going to spend the rest of my liberty as their guest.

I tried to protest, to insist that I had no intention of thrusting my presence upon them for eleven days. But he took my refusal with the air of a hurt child and when Angele joined her pleas with his, I succ.u.mbed.

I let du Frere hail a cab and we all piled in. I gathered up my few possessions at the hotel and climbed aboard again, and we rumbled through the streets of Paris toward St. Germain, Angele clinging to her brother's arm and listening with a wrapt look on her face to his gay comments on trench life.

I thought I must be dreaming it all. It was so like the scene of a play--Paris slipping away from us, as we rattled across a long bridge, the open country becoming greener and leafier every instant--the gay voice of the young officer, the eager questions of our little old driver, and the poppy-like girl, with lips parted, drinking in breathlessly every word her brother uttered.

We stopped before a tiny house, shaded by tall trees. I saw, gathered before it, a little knot of people, shading their eyes for a glimpse of the returning hero.

They pounced upon him, men, women, and children--all his neighbors, who had awaited his home coming for heaven only knows how many hours. They shouted their welcome to him, each of them clasping him for a minute and claiming his full attention.

Angele stood looking on, the tears rolling down her cheeks, even while her lips smiled.

”They love him so,” she said softly, as though to explain it, ”he is so brave!”