Part 16 (2/2)

Any number of what we would call mere children have been so imbued with the spirit of sacrifice, that they have joined the army long before their Cla.s.s was called. Madame de Martel's grandson, the sons of Monsieur Barthou, Louis Morin, Pierre Mille, to mention but a few in thousands, all fell on the Field of Honour before attaining their eighteenth year.

And each family will tell you the same pathetic tale:

”We tried to interest him in his work--we provided all kinds of amus.e.m.e.nts; did everything to keep him here; all to no avail. There was just one thought uppermost in his mind--Enlist--Serve. He was all we had!”

Little Jacques Krauss promised his mother he would not go until he had won his baccalaureate, and my friend lived in the hope that all would be over by the time the ”baby” had succeeded. But, lo! the baby, unknown to his parents, worked nights, skipped a year, pa.s.sed his examination, and left for the front, aged seventeen years and three months! He had kept his word. What could they do?

In another household--my friends the G's., where two elder sons have already been killed, there remained as sole heir, a pale, lanky youth of sixteen.

With the news of his brothers' death the flame of vengeance kindled, and then began a regime of overfeeding, physical exercises, and medical supervision, that would have made many a stouter heart quail.

Every week the family is present when the chest measure is taken.

”Just one more centimetre, and you'll be fit!” exclaims the enthusiastic father, while on the lashes of the smiling mother form two bright tears which trickle unheeded down her cheeks.

There reigns a supernatural enthusiasm among all these youths; an almost sacred fire burns in their eyes, their speech is pondered but pa.s.sionate. They are so glad, so proud to go. They know but one fear--that of arriving too late.

”We don't want to belong to the Cla.s.s that didn't fight.”

And with it all they are so childlike and so simple--these heroes.

One afternoon, in a tea room near the Bon Marche, I noticed a soldier in an obscure corner, who, his back turned to us, was finis.h.i.+ng with vigorous appet.i.te, a plate of fancy cakes and pastry. (There was still pastry in those days--1917.)

”Good!” thought I. ”I'm glad to see some one who loves cakes enjoying himself!”

The plate emptied, he waited a few minutes. Then presently he called the attendant.

She leaned over, listened to his whispered order, smiled and disappeared. A moment later she returned bearing a second well laden dish.

It was not long before these cakes too had gone the way of their predecessors.

I lingered a while anxious to see the face of this robust sweet tooth, whose appet.i.te had so delighted me.

He poured out and swallowed a last cup of tea, paid his bill and rose, displaying as he turned about a pink and white beardless countenance, that might have belonged to a boy of fifteen--suddenly grown to a man during an attack of measles. On his breast was the _Medaille Militaire_, and the _Croix de Guerre_, with three palms.

This mere infant must have jumped from his school to an aeroplane. At any rate, I feel quite certain that he never before had been allowed out alone with sufficient funds to gratify his youthful pa.s.sion for sweetmeats and, therefore, profiting by this first occasion, had indulged himself to the limit. Can you blame him?

[1] The ”Bananna”--slang for the Medaille Militaire--probably on account of the green and yellow ribbon on which it hangs.

VIII

To go from Le Mans to Falaise, from Falaise to St. Lo; from St. Lo to Morlaix, and thence to Poitiers would seem very easy on the map, and with a motor, in times gone by it was a really royal itinerary, so vastly different and picturesque are the various regions crossed. But now that gasolene is handed out by the spoonful even to sanitary formations, it would be just as easy for the civilian to procure a white elephant as to dream of purchasing sufficient ”gas” to make such a trip.

There is nothing to do but take the train, and that means of locomotion not only requires time, but patience and considerable good humour.

Railway service in France has been decidedly reduced, and while travelling is permitted only to those persons who must needs do so, the number of plausible motives alleged has greatly augmented, with the result that trains are crowded to the extreme limit. To tell the truth, a good third of the population is always moving. For how on earth is one to prevent the parents of a wounded hero from crossing the entire country to see him, or deny them the right to visit a lad at his training camp?

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