Part 4 (1/2)
”On Fame's eternal camping ground Their silent tents are spread, And Glory guards with solemn round The bivouac of the Dead.”
At the place of honor, just inside that ”G.o.d's Acre,” I buried Sergeant Omer Talbot of Kansas City, Kansas, one of the bravest and most beloved of Headquarters Troop, who received the last Sacraments, and died in my arms.
[Ill.u.s.tration: THE BATTLE SWEPT ROADSIDE WAS SANCTUARY AND CHOIR.]
Our burials were always religiously attended by the villagers. A French veteran would go through the streets sounding his drum and giving early notice of the burial of an American soldier. The people would gather at the church, the farmer from the field, the artisan from the shop, all dressed as for Sunday. The cure, the mayor, the councilmen, the town major, all would be present. On foot, bearing flowers, they would follow the military cortege to the cemetery. There, following the Benedictus, the mayor would give an impa.s.sioned address, expressing the profound appreciation of France for the service and sacrifice of the gallant American soldiers. His closing words, repeated and echoed through the cemetery by the mult.i.tude, would be, ”Vive l'Amerique! Vive Pers.h.i.+ng!
Vive Wilson!”
Among the most devoted attendants at our funerals were Monsieur and Madame Moidrey and their beautiful daughter Annette, a girl of sixteen years. In rain and s.h.i.+ne they came, always with flowers most beautiful to place upon coffin and grave.
Returning one day from the cemetery, Monsieur respectfully addressed me--”If it would please Monsieur le Chaplain to ever visit our home (they lived just inside the village in a quaint old manor house I had often admired), we would consider it an honor indeed to entertain Monsieur le Chaplain and his friends,” then naively adding, as if by way of further inducement, ”we have the only piano in the village.”
Now Sergeant Eddie Quinlan, 55th Infantry, who came from South Carpenter Street, Chicago, was one of my best pals. He was then attending the Field Signal Battalion School at Shacereyelles, two kilometers away. I sent word to him, directing him to report at my billet the following evening accompanied by the ten handsomest doughboys, besides himself, in his platoon. At the appointed hour and place, the Buddies were faithfully on hand; and need I add, all were from Chicago? How proud I was of them, stalwart huskies, well groomed, brown as berries, and with muscles of iron.
”Fellows, if you have no other engagement for this evening, would you care to accompany me to the Moidrey residence, honored guests of the family? They have a piano; and I might add, a most charming daughter of sixteen summers.” Here they nearly mobbed me! ”Would they go?” ”Other engagements!” ”Say, Father, you are not kidding us, are you?” etc., etc!
By way of information permit me to here observe that these boys had been sleeping in fields then for two weeks. They had not seen the inside of an honest-to-goodness home, nor sat at a dining-table with real tablecloth, napkins or plates, since they landed in France. Neither had they heard a piano, nor been the guest of any lady, young or old--well--since they left Camp Merritt. Their over-flowing cup of joy, at this alluring prospect, can therefore easily be imagined.
As we no doubt would be invited to sing, we first rehea.r.s.ed several popular songs, holding forth with a gusto that raised the roof, even of the ancient and st.u.r.dy house of Barnicault. To the air of ”Old Kentucky Home,” Quinlan tried out our latest, A Song of Home:
You may sing of Erin's Shannon flowing softly to the sea, The Thames where it pa.s.ses London town; You may boast the bonnie Clyde where it mingles with the tide, And the Seine with its romance of renown.
You may paint in blue the Danube or the far Italian Po, But of all the streams enshrined in memory, Is the good old Mississippi, that wherever I may go, Is the dearest one in all the world to me.
CHORUS:
Then sing the song, my comrades, O we'll sing this song today, That wherever we may roam, we'll sing a song of home For the dear old Mississippi far away.
You may boast of Irish Nora, or sweet Bessey of Dundee, The charm of England's Geraldines so fair; You may choose the maids of Belgium or Ma'm'selles of Picardy All famed for grace and beauty everywhere.
But if you will but listen, and leave the choice to me I'll point with pride to dear old U. S. A.
Where there's maidens fair to see, sweet and dear as Liberty And never cloud o'ershadows beauty's day.
CHORUS:
Then sing this song, my comrades, O we'll sing this song today, That wherever we may roam, we'll sing a song of home For the maidens fair back home in U. S. A.
A trench mirror four inches by six hung on the wall of my billet. There was a mad scramble for a last facial and tonsorial inspection; for each fellow boldly made his boast, ”Just watch me, Bo, make the hit of the evening with Ma chere Miss Frenchy.”
Down the village street in column of twos we made our way.
”All gentle in peace and all valiant in war, There never was Knight like the young Lochinvar.”
As we went singing carefree, secretly my heart was sad. As a Staff Officer I knew, although the boys did not, that this was to be their last evening party; that on the morrow they were to leave for the front line trenches; that many weary days, weeks and months of stern, bitter, deadly realities lay just before them; and I wanted them to at least enjoy this one last evening of home-spun, joyful valedictory.
The Moidrey residence stood back a little from the road, protected by a tall iron fence of artistic design. As we drew near, my Minstrel Boys prudently ”soft pedaled” their singing, so as not to over-alarm our kind host. Responsive to our sounding the huge bra.s.s, lion-headed knocker on the ma.s.sive gate, the house door opened. Monsieur, Madame and Mademoiselle Annette came down the winding garden path to admit and welcome us.
Introductions followed, formal, gracious and charming. Quite true it was that our kindly hosts could not speak a word of English, nor the Buddies of French, at least of French fit to grace the occasion. There is a language, however, that is not of the tongue, but of the heart. It is expressed in the flash of a love-lit eye; it is felt in the pressure of a kindly hand. It is spoken and understood the world over and needs no interpreter. This language my boys spoke very fluently; and our charming hosts did them the honor to understand.
In the parlor was the wonderful piano, brought all the way from Paris.
Obligingly, charmingly, Mademoiselle Annette responded to our profuse, overwhelming invitations to play first. Sweet and innocent she looked sitting there; her cheeks fair as the roses in her garden, her eyes modestly aglow with star light, her raven hair in a single braid of ample length, neatly adorned with a red ribbon and bewitchingly tossed over her shoulder. Never was a young lady better guarded at a piano; five stalwart doughboys on either side, jealously turning the pages of a sheet of music that was upside down. Artistically she played and the loud applause that greeted her would have made envious our own f.a.n.n.y Bloomfield Zeisler.