Part 5 (1/2)

”Is he one of ours?” questioned a man from an upper window, stopping an instant in the act of polis.h.i.+ng his gun.

”No,” answers some one.

The enquirer recommenced his work, and with it the refrain of his song, just where he had left off.

”_Sur les bords de la Riviera_,” sang he blithely.

Little groups formed along the wayside. Seated on the straw they finished their afternoon meal, touching mugs, and joking together.

Near them the artillerymen greased and verified their axles; others brushed and curried the horses. In one spot a hair dresser had set up his tonsorial parlor in the open, and his customers formed in line awaiting their turns.

Further on the _permissionaires_ blacked their boots and furbished their raiment, making ready to leave for home. Swarms of humming birds and bees cl.u.s.tered about a honeysuckle vine which clung to the fragments of a fence near by, and whose fragrance saturated the air.

The friend, whose regiment number we had recognised, and stopped to see, came up from behind and touched me on the shoulder.

”Well, of all things! What on earth are you doing here?”

We explained our mission, and then inquired about mutual acquaintances.

”Pistre? Why he's with the munitions in the 12xth. We'll go over and see him. It's not far. But hold on a minute, isn't Lorrain a friend of yours?”

We acquiesced.

”Well, his son's my lieutenant. I'll go and get him. He'd be too sorry to miss you.”

He disappeared and a few moments later returned followed by his superior, a handsome little nineteen year old officer, who came running up, his pipe in his mouth, his drinking cup still in his hand. The lad blushed scarlet on seeing us, for he doubtless recalled, as did I, the times not long gone by, when I used to meet him at a music teacher's, his long curls hanging over his wide sailor collar.

The idea that this mere infant should have command over such a man as our friend Nourrigat, double his age, and whose life of work and struggle had been a marvel to us all, somewhat shocked me.

I think the little chap felt it, for he soon left us, pleading that he must be present at a conference of officers.

”A brave fellow and a real man,” commented Nourrigat, as the boy moved away. ”His whole company has absolute confidence in him. You can't imagine the calm and prestige that kid possesses in the face of danger.

He's the real type of leader, he is! And let me tell you, he's pretty hard put sometimes.”

And then in a burst of genuine enthusiasm, he continued:

”It's wonderful to be under twenty, with a smart little figure, a winsome smile, and a gold stripe on your sleeve. The women willingly compare you to the Queen's pages, or Napoleon's handsome hussars. That may be all very well in a salon, or in the drawings you see in 'La Vie Parisienne,' but it takes something more than that to be a true officer. He's got to know the ropes at playing miner, bombarder, artilleryman, engineer, optician, accountant, caterer, undertaker, hygienist, carpenter, mason--I can't tell you what all. And in each particular job he's got to bear the terrible responsibility of human lives; maintain the discipline and the moral standard, a.s.sure the cohesion of his section. Moreover, he's called upon to receive orders with calm and reserve under the most difficult and trying circ.u.mstances, must grasp them with lightning speed and execute them according to rules and tactics. A moment of hesitancy or forgetfulness, and he is lost. The men will no longer follow him. I tell you it isn't everybody that's born to be a leader!”

”But, was he educated for the career?” we questioned.

”I don't think so. I imagine he's just waiting for the end of the war to continue his musical studies--that is if he comes out alive.”

”And you?”

”I? Why I've no particular ambition. I suppose I could have gone into the Camouflage Corps if I'd taken the trouble to ask. But what's the use of trying to shape your own destiny?”

”You've gotten used to this life?”

”Not in the least. I abominate and adore it all in the same breath.

Or, to be more explicit, I admire the men and abhor the military pictures, the thrilling and sentimental ideas of the warrior with which the civilian head is so generously crammed. I love military servitude, and the humble life of the men in the ranks, but I have a genuine horror of heroes and their sublimity.