With Those Who Wait Part 5

"Is he one of ours?" questioned a man from an upper window, stopping an instant in the act of polishing 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.

"Just look over there," he went on, waving his hand towards a long line of seated _poilus_ who were peacefully enjoying their pipes, while wistfully watching the smoke curl upward. "Just look at them, aren't they splendid? Why they've got faces like the 'Drinkers' in the Velasquez picture. See that little fellow rolling his cigarette?

Isn't he the image of the Bacchus who forms the centre of the painting?

That's Brunot, and he's thinking about all the G.o.d-mothers whose letters swell out his pockets. He can't make up his mind whether he prefers the one who lives in Ma.r.s.eilles and who sent him candied cherries and her photograph; or the one from Laval who keeps him well supplied with devilled ham which he so relishes. The two men beside him are Lemire and Lechaptois--both peasants. When they think, it's only of their farms and their wives. That other little thin chap is a Parisian bookkeeper. I'd like to bet that he's thinking of his wife, and only of her. He's wondering if she's faithful to him. It's almost become an obsession. I've never known such jealousy, it's fairly killing him.

"That man Ballot, just beyond"--and our friend motioned up the line--"that man Ballot would give anything to be home behind his watch-maker's stand. In a moment or so he'll lean over and begin a conversation with his neighbour Thevenet. They've only one topic, and it's been the same for two years. It's angling. They haven't yet exhausted it.

"All of them at bottom are heartily wishing it were over; they've had enough of it. But they're good soldiers, just as before the war they were good artisans. The _metier_ is sacred--as are the Family and Duty. 'The Nation, Country, Honour' are big words for which they have a certain repugnance.

"'That's all rigmarole that somebody hands you when you've won the Wooden Cross and a little garden growing over your tummy,' is the way they put it in their argot. 'The Ma.r.s.eillaise, the Chant du Depart are all right for the youngsters, and the reviews--and let me tell you, the reviews take a lot of furbishing and make a lot of dust. That's all they really amount to.'

"When they sing, it's eternally 'The Mountaineers' who, as you know, are always 'there,' 'Sous les Ponts de Paris,' 'Madelon' and other sentimental compositions, and if by accident, in your desire to please, you were p.r.o.ne to compare them to the heroes of Homer, it's more than likely your pains would be rewarded by the first missile on which they could lay their hands and launch in your direction. They will not tolerate mockery.

"No"--he went on, filling his pipe, and enunciating between each puff.

"No, they are neither supermen nor heroes; no more than they are drunkards or foul mouthed blackguards. No, they are better than all that--they are men, real men, who do everything they do well; be it repairing a watch, cabinet-making, adding up long columns of figures or peeling potatoes, mounting guard, or going over the top! They do the big things as though they were small, the small things as though they were big!

"Two days ago the captain sent for two men who had been on patrol duty together. He had but one decoration to bestow and both chaps were in hot discussion as to who should _not_ be cited for bravery.

"'Now, boys, enough of this,' said the captain. 'Who was leading, and who first cut the German barbed wire?'

"'Dubois.'

"'Well then, Dubois, what's all this nonsense? The cross is yours.'

"'No, sir, if you please, that would be idiotic! I'm a foundling, haven't any family. What's a war cross more or less to me? Now Paul here keeps a cafe; just think of the pleasure it will give his clientele to see him come back decorated.'

"The captain who knows his men, understood Dubois' sincerity, and so Paul got the medal.

"I believe it was Peguy who said that 'Joan of Arc' has the same superiority over other saints, as the man who does his military service has over those who are exempt.' But it's only the soldiers who really understand that, and when they say _On les aura_, it means something more from their lips, than when uttered by a lady over her tea-cups, or a reporter in his newspaper."

During this involuntary monologue we had strolled along the road which Nourrigat had originally indicated as the direction of our friend Pistre. Presently he led us into the church, a humble little village sanctuary. A sh.e.l.l had carried away half the apse, and sadly damaged the altar. The belfry had been demolished and the old bronze bell split into four pieces had been carefully fitted together by some loving hand, and stood just inside the doorway.

St. Anthony of Padua had been beheaded, and of St. Roch there remained but one foot and half his dog. Yet, a delightful sensation of peace and piety reigned everywhere. From the confessional rose the murmur of voices, and the improvised altar was literally buried beneath garlands of roses.

In what had once been a chapel, a soldier now sat writing. His note books were spread before him on a table, a telephone was at his elbow.

Chalk letters on a piece of broken slate indicate that this is the "_Bureau de la 22e_."

An old bent and withered woman, leaning on a cane, issued from this office-chapel as we approached.

"Why that's mother Tesson," exclaimed Nourrigat. "Good evening, mother; how's your man to-day?"

"Better, sir. Much better, thank you. They've taken very good care of him at your hospital."

The old couple had absolutely refused to evacuate their house. The Sous-Prefet, the Prefet, all the authorities had come and insisted, but to no avail.

"We've lost everything," she would explain. "Our three cows, our chickens, our pigs. Kill us if you like, but don't force us to leave home. We worked too hard to earn it!"

And so they had hung on as an oyster clings to its rock. One sh.e.l.l had split their house in twain, another had flattened out the hayloft. The old woman lay on her bed crippled with rheumatism, her husband a victim of gall stones. Their situation was truly most distressing.