Chapter VI: American Joans of Arc

“A month and a half was long enough for us on the Cheman de Damns front. We _parteed_ ’bout March fifteenth or so and got on another one of them funny little trains—didn’t stay on long—only ’bout fifteen hours.

“Detrained at Château-Brienne and started hiking over the road to our rest-camp. We was due for a rest, also furloughs. But I ain’t seen neither of them things so far. That country down there sure was the darb for us. It was just turnin’ off kind of spring-like and warm, too. We were the first Americans to go through that section, and the people—honest, O. D., they must have thought that we were American Joans of Arc. Everybody came rushin’ to the doors and waved to us. The mademoiselles threw us kisses by the bushel. I got so excited that I muffed most of ’em that came my way.

“After bein’ up in that mud-coated front country where you hardly ever saw human bein’s, just soldiers, and where all of the houses had holes in ’em and the gardens were all torn up by shells, it was great to get back where the fields was green and people smiled and said nice things. I was gettin’ to this French stuff ’bout that time and I could _compree_ a little of what they said.

“Our first stop was at a little town called Dienville. We blew in with the band playin’ and everybody happy. The villagers gave us the hell of a fine welcome and made us feel to home _toot sweet_. Right after I put my horse on the picket-line and camouflaged my equipment I started lookin’ for something to monjay and a place to _cushay_. First store I hit was a baker shop—_boulangerie_, they say in _Fransay_. The shop was full of women and little girls. They was talkin’ a mile a minute. That’s the fastest thing they do in this country, you know, _parley_—and every few minutes I could hear ’em say ‘_Américains—Américains_.’

“Finally I asked ’bout _monjayin’_ and they told me where the restaurant was. I never had tried to get a _chambre_ before, but I got _parleyin’_ ’bout a place to _cushay_, and a little girl ’bout twelve years old and pretty—listen to me, O. D., that child was the darb of a _petite mademoiselle_. She asked her mother how ’bout my stayin’ with them, or it sounded that way to me. Course I said in my foolish French, ‘_Keskesay?_’ which means, What did you say?

“The mademoiselle was a little timid. Guess I’m kind of hard to look at, anyway. She got closer to her mother, but she didn’t hide them pretty blue eyes. Looked me straight in the face and said her mother, the madame, would fix me up on the _cushay_ stuff. Then I got kind of brave myself and went over to her and her mother. The girl put her hand in mine _toot sweet_ and said, ‘_Comrade_.’ I never was much for bein’ ’round children, but I grabbed her and threw her up and down like I have seen daddies do. She kissed me smack on the cheek and said her name was Louise.

“That little mademoiselle’s kiss was the first one I had in a long time, O. D. Sometimes I still get the taste of it, as I ’ain’t had another since. Louise and the madame was more than _jauntee_, which as I _compree_ it means nice, or kind. They fed me _dey zerfs_, _der lay_—that’s eggs and milk—and _beaucoup pom de tear fritz_ for every _monjay_. I _cu-shayed_ in a real _lee_—Frog for bed—that night, and honest it took me near three hours to get asleep, the bed was so soft. Next mornin’ I fooled ’em and didn’t answer _reveille_—_cushayed_ till ’bout nine bells and got up, shaved with real hot water, washed as far down my neck as my hand could go and sure felt fittin’ for anything.

“Louise had beat it to school, but the madame saved a big bowl of _café-ooo-lay_—O. D., if you ever drink a bowl of real French _café-ooo-lay_ you’ll never be satisfied with that stuff they serve in Childs’ or the Waldorf. It’s coffee with _beaucoup_ hot milk, and it sure is the darb. Along with that _café-ooo-lay_ I had a hunk of regular _du pan_. Frog bread is _bon_ when it’s made right—and some _du burre_—butter, you know. Madame kept _parleyin’_ somethin’ ’bout _dey zerfs_—which are eggs in American—but I told her that I’d wait till dinner to _monjay_ the omelet.

“While I was gettin’ away with the _petite dayjunay_—as madame called what I was monjayin’—she told me that her _marrieh_, her husband, was a lieutenant in the Frog artillery—_swasont kans_—which means the same as our three-inch pieces. Showed me _beaucoup_ pictures of the old man and lots of souvenirs. He’d been in the _guerre_ three and a half years—wounded three times. I began thinkin’ that us Americans didn’t have so much kick comin’ bein’ as how we were about four years late in gettin’ in against the Kaiser.

“When Louise came home from school she took me out for a walk. Say, you ought to have seen the guys pike me off. ‘What you doin’, Jimmy, teachin’ kindergarten?’ lots of ’em asked me. I told ’em no, that she was my _fiancée_ and was goin’ to _partee_ to _Amérique_ with me. Louise _compreed_ that line and said, ‘_Oui_’ all the time.

“There was a band concert in the little square that afternoon, and, believe me, the Frogs sure enjoyed it. They hadn’t heard any music since the _guerre_ started, except the church organ, I guess. I had a flock of little mademoiselles hangin’ on to me by that time, as Louise was mighty popular with ’em all. Course, as luck would have it, I had a bar or two of chocolate in my jeans, and I handed it over to Louise and her little friends. Boy, they thought I was a regular Santa Claus after that.

“When we left Dienville two days later all the kids in the village was cryin’ because the Americans was _parteein’_. I sure got to hand it to those people in that place, they was the old darb for us. Course things has changed a good deal since then—we ain’t new to the Frogs any more and lots of ’em with stuff to sell have found out that we get a darn sight more _frankers_ a month than the Frog army pays.

“We hiked ’bout five days or so, stoppin’ every night in some village and finally got to the area which was to be our rest-camp. Just got settled in the billets when we got an order to _partee toot sweet_. We was kinda sore, but most of us said, ‘_Say la guerre_,’ and let it go at that. Nobody knew what the hell it meant as we was miles from newspapers and telegraph wires, and never got any news of the _guerre_. That’s how we started the seventeen-day hike from down around Joinville straight up to the Toul front.

“That hike was one of the worst things we bucked against durin’ this _guerre_. There wasn’t but two days on which the sun came out at all. It rained day and night. The roads was all mud and so slippery that the men and horses was slidin’ all over the place. There wasn’t no way to carry fresh rations, so we _monjayed_ ‘corn willy,’ black coffee, and hardtack seventeen days straight. The horses had a hell of a time, too, as there never was enough hay and oats for all of ’em to _monjay_ at one time. Guess we covered ’bout twenty-two kilofloppers every day. Never got up later than three bells in the mornin’ and generally got to _cushay_ around _nerver_. That’s nine o’clock in this country.

“When we hit a town at night we had to stretch a picket-line for the _chevaux_, then water and feed ’em. After that we could feed ourselves and hunt a _chambre_ or hayloft to _cushay_. As a rule, the _chambres_ was all for the officers when we got to ’em. We sure had a tough time hikin’ across this damn country. Never did get warm the whole time. ’Bout that time my old feet began to get _malade_. Whenever you hear a Frog say _malade_ you’ll know they’re talkin’ about bein’ sick. They was so cold all the time until they would swell up overnight and in the mornin’ you had a fat chance of gettin’ your shoes on, as those darn hobnails used to shrink up like a pair of white-flannel britches do after washin’ ’em. One mornin’ the old feet was so bad that I had to wear a pair of those wooden boats ’round. The doctors call feet like I had trench feet. I’ve had ’em ever since. Wear tens now; used to wear eights and a half back in civilian days.”