Chapter VI: Chambéry and Our Soldiers on Leave

Hotel de France,
Chambéry, Jan. 5, 1918.

I am sitting in my room in the hotel with my feet on the radiator, and the window wide open. Outside is the most romantic line of chimney pots against the “mountains of eternal snow,” which at this moment are of a luminous rose color, and swathed in a veil of pale mists, making them seem infinitely high.

Coming up in the train the other day we met a chasseur, who was stationed in Belgium, and asked him if he thought there would be an advance there. He simply said, “No, because it takes sixteen hours to advance 400 meters, on account of the mud.” Then he said that the men carrying their packs on their backs have to be tied together by ropes in order not to drown in it, and every time they take a step they have to pull each foot out with both hands. Also they get their food by passing it along, on the principle of an old-fashioned fire bucket line and the end ones get it cold on account of the distance, or if there isn’t enough, don’t get it at all. The mud is icy cold and they have orders to cut their overcoats off above the mud, which comes half way up the thigh. At the end of eight days you can imagine how warm they are and their overcoats can’t be lengthened again. An officer here told us the other night that it was even worse at Verdun, because they were being shot at and shelled in addition. He had seen his men drown in the mud ten feet in front of him, “as far off as that table,” he said, and he and the nearest man to him were powerless to save them, though they sank slowly. He said there wasn’t a single man in his regiment who was there at the beginning. They were all killed or wounded or just couldn’t go on. After one attack and before another, sometimes a man, who had been as brave as could be the first time, would just sit down and cry and say he couldn’t go on. It wasn’t because he was a coward either, but because he had simply come to the end of his powers!

The officer who told us all this belonged to the “Iron Regiment” of the “Troupes d’Afrique,” which we saw several months ago in Bois le Prêtre. These troops are always used for attack. He was a strange-looking man with black hair and a dark complexion, and intense hazel eyes. He spoke quietly but with suppressed fire. He looked as if he might have some queer Arab mixture in him. Then he calmly said that the War couldn’t end till 1920, he thought, to thoroughly beat the Germans, but that would be done eventually. We hear that, at all times and from all sides, and everywhere they say that 1918 will be the worst year, because Germany knows America’s latent power, and knows she must win before we can get in. The French all say they can hold on till we get in, but they count on us to win.

A sweet, dimpled little French boy in the train, who had just graduated from the School of Artillery, told us that he had been training with the Americans, whom he described as “beaux” and “grands.” Every morning before drill, he said, they felt cold, so they lined the French up on one side and the Americans on the other and boxed. Their “képis” and the American hats went every which way. They didn’t speak each other’s language,--“but we understood each other very well.” One American cut a Frenchman’s head open with his fist by mistake,--“but they were friends, so it didn’t matter.”

We have just got settled in our dépôt, and to-morrow some médecin-chefs are coming to see us and our supplies.

Chambéry, Jan. 20, 1918.

Last week, at Lyons, we met some refugees from near Cambrai who had been evacuated through Holland to France. There were a lot of them with their children, carrying their worldly goods done up in blankets. Two, a man and his wife whom we talked to, seemed to be of better class than the others, and we learned that they had kept a rather large store. They thought we were English, therefore what they said about the United States was not said to flatter us. They told us that had it not been for the American food they would have died of starvation before now, but that the food relief was admirably well administered, and that it is sacred, _i.e._ the Germans even now don’t dare touch it. They got once a month rice, flour, cereals, salt meat (they’d had no fresh meat since the beginning of the war), cocoa, sugar, and condensed milk. The Germans took all such things as milk and eggs for themselves. Also, as they were supposed to reap a certain amount of the harvest for the civilian population, and give it to them, the Germans substituted the bad flour they made for the good flour sent from the United States for the refugees. The result was that the refugees got all bad flour. They said the bread was like glue, and pulled out in long strings like molasses candy when bitten, and all their teeth fell out.

The German doctors were supposed to take care of them. The way they did it was to give them advice that could not be followed as to diet and prescriptions--there were _no_ drugs there--, then they laughed at the patients’ dismay!

The Germans themselves haven’t enough to eat. The troops in the first-line trenches are given enough, but those in the rear are not. The young boys of seventeen and eighteen came and asked the civilians for bread frequently, but they haven’t enough themselves, so they could not give them any.

Another thing they said was that the discipline in the German army is terrific. Men are shot for the slightest thing, because the officers fear revolt. The officers and men have different newspapers, also. If a man reads or repeats news from his officer’s paper which is not in his own paper, he is punished. The queer part of it is, that the men don’t want to read the officers’ papers, they are so submissive by nature. For that reason some of them didn’t know for _months_ that the United States was in the war.

I asked them whether they had known of such atrocities as the cutting off of children’s hands. They said, “No,” that to be fair to the Germans they could not say they had, but they had known wholesale violation of young girls; that, however, was in the beginning of the war. It still occurred now, of course, but, where they were, not publicly sanctioned. They said they thought the first troops sent into Belgium and France must have been picked for their criminal qualities, as those that had come there since were not the same, though they were all barbarians.

The officers, they thought, must be sent to a regular school to learn how to loot as part of their training. Whenever they came to a town they went into each house and made an inventory of each room, which they pasted on the wall of the room. If, after that, an inhabitant of the house moved so much as a knife or a spoon from one room to another, he was punished. The officers would send soldiers to requisition things in the houses. One day they would come and take four chairs, for instance, chop them up before their owners’ eyes, and tell them they were for firewood and take them away in a cart. Another time they would take candlesticks, beds, blankets, china, and everything, with no explanation. A day or two later the people would see their things going to the rear, dumped in a cart with old stoves and pipes, all mixed together with pictures, bronze statues, etc.

One day, they said, two English aviators were brought down over the town. All the people felt very sad, and some went about weeping. The next day they were forbidden to go to the funeral over which the Germans were rejoicing. Every one went just the same. They were forbidden to put flowers on the graves. The Germans placed a guard in hiding to take down the names of those who went, nevertheless, and _covered_ the graves with flowers. Every one was punished. I asked what the punishment was. They said to have manacles on their hands and live on bread and water for four days and sweep the streets. One old man, who used to be a millionaire, they said, was made to do it, too. The Germans are no respecters of persons. To shock the inhabitants, they used the churches for cafés and cinemas. When the curé objected, he was punished.

I must tell you about the Belgian military tuberculosis hospital at Chambéry. There are one hundred and twenty-five men in it, hardly one of whom knows what has become of his family. There is every kind of man, some speak English, French, and Flemish, others only Flemish. There are only men infirmiers, one to each ward of fifty, to take care of the patients, and doctors and infirmiers are both tired out.

The one bright ray of sunshine in the place is a brave Englishwoman, Lady Baird, but she is perfectly worn out and _must_ take a rest soon. I don’t see how she stands it. She says the men are so patient and cheerful. They have nothing. Some who are well enough can’t go out because they have no shoes, so they have to stay in. Of course she and we are trying to get them things that they need. They had but one wash basin for fifty men, they had no screens at all. Lady Baird bought some, as she found that even the men who were dying were left in the wards with the others talking around them.

When we went there with comfort bags the men were very shy. They had seen scarcely any one but Lady Baird. They said “Merci,” sometimes “Merci, de tout cœur.” When we left, instead of the usual gayety that follows in the wake of the bags, they were nearly all weeping because they were so glad that somebody had come to see them, and cared a little about them. Some of the bags had lovely letters in them. Lady Baird was weeping, too, and we were on the verge of collapse, and the Ford wouldn’t budge from the door!

Now Lady Baird has got them to make out a list of books that they’d like, which occupies them, and I’m going to get them some with the money you sent over. I saw only one book in the whole place. The librarian here is very nice. When I told him they were books for the tuberculous Belgians because the time seemed so long to them, he said: “Ah yes, Mademoiselle, I know, I have tuberculosis myself.” He was waiting to go to a sanitarium in Switzerland and has added books himself to those they asked for.

Chambéry.

I inclose some letters of thanks from two hospitals to which I sent periodicals from the money given me for that purpose by the “Transcript” readers, some of whose names are unknown to me. Of course the soldiers thank me as representing the givers.

It’s rather pathetic, isn’t it, to end up by wishing me a long life, when many of them are probably dying.

Perhaps you can translate the letters and put them in the “Transcript,” in order that people may see that their gifts really are appreciated, and are giving pleasure.

_Translation_

LETTER FROM THE SOLDIERS AT THE HOSPITAL AT VANNES

Madame:

It is with profound joy and veritable pleasure that we frequently receive the illustrated periodicals, which your great generosity and kindness have been the means of sending us.

This gesture is the more charming, the more noble, that it is addressed to all this little colony of sick men; it is truly a good work.

I assure you, Madame, that this is well understood at our hospital. Every one has the benefit of them, all read them with pleasure, and it is upon the urgent demand of all, and in the name of all, that I address to you our most sincere and grateful thanks.

This gracious gift provides us, not only a moment of diversion, in which we forget our physical sufferings, but it is also a precious moral support, which in our case is of inestimable help.

In return for this good deed, receive, Madame, from all your grateful, poor, sick men (de tous vos petits malades reconnaissants) their best wishes for your health, long life, and happiness, as well as their renewed thanks.

Fifteen signatures.

_Translation_

Hôpital de Trébeurden.

Madame:

Wounded or ill, we have all the care needed at the hospital; we lacked only occupation for the mind, but, thanks to your solicitude, we now have the means of diversion, and it is with keen pleasure that we thank you for your gift of books, periodicals, and magazines.

When we shall have returned to our homes after victory, when we recount to our children the episodes of this formidable war, we shall tell them of the generous way in which you came to relieve our sufferings, and share our common sacrifices, for the defense of our just cause.

We want them, too, to keep in their hearts a place of honor for your noble American nation.

A group of grateful soldiers,

A. Carow, Motor Driver,
and ten others.

Chambéry, Jan. 27, 1918.

How good that G. is a first lieutenant. I am terribly proud of him, aren’t you? But, oh, how I hate to think of his being in the War. There is so much that the boys can’t imagine, possibly. Any one can stand the fighting, but the sitting in the mud for days with _nothing_ to do, and the dirt, and the routine, and the oppressive boredom is what tires and tests them. If they don’t have ideals, they are lost,--there is no just getting along; they either live by their ideals, or lose them. I don’t believe there’s any middle way. I don’t worry about that for G., for he is an idealist anyway, but I’m afraid he will have moments of agony of mind more intense than we can imagine. It’s impossible for us to know what the soldiers go through, and the more I see of them, the more I’m convinced that I know nothing at all about the war.

I often wish that I could do some definite good somewhere, or rather see the results of it. We see hundreds of wounded once or twice, and they are such dears, just like children in the way they tell us little things about themselves that bubble forth, but we never stay long enough anywhere to see them get well, or even improve. We pass on, with a memory of a face or a voice, or even that indefinite thing called atmosphere, and we never know whether they get well, or die (though sometimes that is all too evident), or whether they see their families again, or a million and one other things that they tell us about so eagerly.

The other day when we were giving out “sacs surprises” in the hospital here, we went down the ward, talking to the men as usual as we gave out the bags, explaining about chewing gum and corncob pipes, and translating the letters written in English, till we came to the end of the ward. There, singing in his bed, was a little Belgian soldier. We’d seen him at the Belgian hospital a few days before, and, when we came along, he stopped singing, and said, “Bon jour.” I said, “You are singing this morning; are you happy?” He smiled a little, and then said, “No, Mademoiselle, but they cut off my leg this morning; it hurts, and I feel as if I must cry, so I sing instead, that no one may know,” and he went on humming softly to himself. He seemed no more than eighteen.

Opposite him was a very sick-looking man. The doctor stopped, and told us he was a German. “Shall we give him a bag?” we asked the doctor. He wouldn’t say; do as we please. We still asked, “Shall we?” Then came a kind of chorus from the nearest sick men, “Mais oui, oui, donnez, Mesdames,” and the little Belgian nodded his head in the middle of his song. Mrs. Lee took the bag over to the Boche. He looked surprised, and then said: “But I’m a German.” Mrs. Lee told him that he was no longer an enemy, now that he was sick, and he just clutched the bag with a whispered “Merci,” and shut his eyes tight.

Chambéry, February 6, 1918.

There is some really thrilling news to tell you about Chambéry: it is about to become a recreation center for American soldiers on leave. They are to come at the rate of about two hundred a week to Aix, Challes, and Chambéry. Ten different recreation centers are being arranged, to which the American soldiers may go. Each man may choose which place he prefers, or, if he has no choice, he may go the regular round, a “leave” in each place. The object is, of course, to keep them out of the big cities, and to give them so good a time that they won’t want to go to them. In fact, they are not to be allowed to go to them. Of course this applies only to men; officers may go where they choose.

All the hotels at Chambéry have been taken over by the Y. M. C. A., and are to be used for the men. In that way, they feel they are really having a vacation, and yet there is no chance of undesirable people coming to them. In fact, even the maids are to sleep elsewhere, and Mrs. Lee and I are to have a little suite to ourselves, in an “L” that is cut off from the rest of the hotel, but are to have our meals in the dining room, which is expected to have a good influence. Every one else, except one elderly Frenchwoman, has to leave the hotel. I think the same arrangements are being made in all the other places. These beautiful, empty, pre-war watering-places lend themselves admirably to the Y. M. C. A. plan, which I believe is General Pershing’s, and carried out by the Y. M. C. A.

Mrs. Lee and I feel the weight of the nation upon us, as the people here regard us as pillars of support. Madame R. asked us how often it was expected that the town would be shot up! I certainly am in luck to see, first, our first battalion on its way to the front, and the French impressions therefrom, and then the organization for, and arrival of the first batch on leave, and the ensuing opinion also. It’s just luck it happened that way.

The people of the town have organized a committee of hospitality for the soldiers; they have planned excursions for them, arranged to meet them at the train,--all this is to be actively carried out by those who can speak English, and a certain number are going to help them shop. They have also arranged to give them a Club House where they can read, write, smoke, play games, and eat their luncheon, and get hot chocolate, tea, and coffee, between excursions. There also will be a room where they will have a chance to meet “convenable” French people of the town, with the aid of the English-speaking ones, and the Y. M. C. A. ladies and men who are coming to live there, and do most of the actual running of the club. All this, the French committee, bursting with enthusiasm, told Mr. Cate who is making the arrangements here, and he, being just the right, tactful kind of person, of course agreed at once, only dropping suggestions where they’d best take root, and then going away and letting the French people run it themselves, and now we have been asked to their next meeting to hear their plans, and tell them what we can that may help. Monsieur Lugon says that they intend to ask Mrs. Lee and me to get the furnishings for the Club, as we would know better what our boys would like. The Y. M. C. A. has offered funds, I believe.

Besides, they are to have all the sports they like, and the theater to use as they want. American and English companies are coming to play in it. All the grocers and shopkeepers have been assembled, and have agreed to uniform prices, and a price list is being put up in hotels and in the shops, so that the soldier shall not be “done,” or the prices rise too high for the people here. This is done in all the towns where United States troops go. Also, they are going to have a goodly number of American films in the cinemas. In fact, the whole town is agog, and we are too!

There is being organized by the French people a society, called “The French Homes,” the object of which is to have nice French families meet American soldiers, and French officers receive American officers in their houses, with the hope that they may become real friends. Thus the American may feel he knows a family here, and ultimately the two nations may understand each other better. This is approved by the French authorities and by the American, and is so worked out by both, that if a soldier, who is a lawyer by profession, for instance, wants to go to the seashore, to a French family, his application is sent in to the United States Headquarters; he is looked up, and if his record is all right, he is sent to the family of a French lawyer at the seashore, who has been looked up by the “French Homes” Society, and is on their lists. All right in that case, but can’t you see an enlightened and keen American farmer from the West, landing on a French peasant? I hope they have some provision for cases like that.

Chambéry, February 22, 1918.

We went to Grenoble last week, and visited the hospitals there. Nothing unusual about them; they were comparatively empty, as are all the hospitals in this region now. One hospital, in a convent, was in the most beautiful place I have ever seen anywhere. It was above Grenoble, on the “hill” opposite the Grande Chartreuse. From it you could see the whole range, covered with new-fallen snow, and the whole valley down to Mt. Blanc and up to Aix-les-Bains, tinted with the colors of spring and blue mist. Each soldier had beside his bed a bowl, in which were little wild violet and primrose plants. The place was clean, and very poor, but the sisters made the soldiers as happy as could be. In peace times I believe they are cloistered nuns. I often wonder if they ever can go back to it, after this very human joy of taking care of their soldier “enfants.” Just below the convent was a graveyard, and there we saw one of the little sisters going from grave to grave, saying a prayer at each.

In another hospital, we found a doctor who had been wounded earlier in the war, and had been nursed at Neuilly. Among his patients were many Arabs, and the hospital was installed in what was meant for a huge factory, but the machinery had never been put into the long rooms. He had had a push cart made for the dressings and food, and little bed tables for the men. He showed them to us with pride, and then hastily added: “But it isn’t original; I learned it from the Americans at Neuilly.” He also had started a library for his men, comprising books on agriculture and trade, because a great many of the soldiers, he said, knew nothing much about their trades, or any trade. It would be important, after the war, that they should be “instruits” in something, so he had that library for them to use during their convalescence, and many of them were glad to have an opportunity to study. He was a very young doctor, and had been wounded in the back, and was quite lame, but he must be rather brilliant, as he was the Médecin-chef of a very large hospital, mostly for those who were recovering from their wounds, but not well enough to dispense with care and dressings.

Then we came back here and thrill of thrills, the Americans have arrived! They came to Aix first, and what excitement! They had a French band and a colored band, and both bands paraded up and down the streets until every one thought they’d burst from exertion. You can imagine the effect the colored band had on the inhabitants!

Then two days later a trainload of them arrived at Chambéry. They are regulars, over a hundred of them, and, with the exception of about six, are as clean and well-behaved a lot of men as you could expect to see anywhere. In fact, they are making an excellent impression, and we are most awfully proud of them. There must be about seventy swarming about in this hotel, and they don’t do any of the things one would expect of rough soldiers. They don’t yell up and down the corridors, they don’t eat with their knives, they don’t trample mud all over the place, or come in noisy at all hours. Instead, they get shaves and shoe shines and baths, until they glisten, grin and say “good mornin’ ma’am,” and “good evenin’,” sing sentimental songs, or rather bellow them, at the piano, and play cards and billiards, and read books, and are insatiable about “seein’ the sights.” First, they walk about the town, most erect and proper, in groups, and then they make for the “environgs” on bicycles of every sort and description, mostly painted bright purple. Sometimes they whiz, sometimes they wobble down the streets. One hears, “Hi, there, Bill, where you goin’?” “Dunno, but I’m still goin’,” comes from Bill, and he wobbles adroitly into the “fontaine des elephants,” which, however, remains calm, even though charged by American infantry.

Last night, after dinner, we found Sergeant B. in the salon immersed in a book, and lost to the world. We were talking to some others, and, all of a sudden, out came the most tremendous guffaw, “Ha-haw-haw” from Sergeant B., who is immense, over six feet, and blond. He was reading the “First Hundred Thousand” and had got to where Private Mucklewame became mixed up with himself, trying to obey orders. Sergeant B. said it was just like that at first.

They really are as upright and manly a lot of men as you could expect to see anywhere, the world over. It is great fun to hear them discuss the “greenhorns,”--militia, draft, and the Plattsburg officers. The highest praise they can give is to say emphatically, “He’s a _white_ man.”

Saturday, Monsieur le Maire gave a reception for them in the Mairie. It was all decorated with flags and flowers. The Mayor made a speech, which was translated; the band played the “Star-spangled Banner”; Major Edmonds made an excellent speech in reply, and the band played the “Marseillaise,” while our boys, so straight and fine, stood at attention, saluting. All the French people stood around and admired them. Then they drank to the health of the United States, and Monsieur le Maire gave his arm to Mrs. Lee when he proposed the toast. Every one drank the health of France, America, and their Allies. We were presented with bouquets of flowers, as were all the English-speaking ladies there.

These soldiers were sent from America in secret; they had no send-off, and this was the first thing that had been done for them. They loved it, and smiled shyly, and bowed with funny, stiff bows to the French ladies who endeavored to entertain them, while they sipped champagne, which a little boy, who told me he’d been brought up in an orphan asylum, said he’d never seen the “likes of” before. Needless to say, none of them got too much, as they explained, “that was a swell party the French gave to honor us,” and you can just believe they were being an honor to their country with all their might.

We’ve got to know some of them really well: Corporal Hackett, who was the first man wounded (a shell burst and killed his best friend, on whose knees his head was resting); Privates Gray and Osborne, the latter being the man who put up the telephone line, on which they first talked across to San Francisco, and who has been everything imaginable, beginning as a steeple-jack. Also, Sergeant Blood and a lot of others, and Mr. T., whom I met when he was at Harvard, and who is one of the nicest people imaginable, doing more for the men unofficially than the Y. M. C. A. can do officially.

We went over to the Y. M. C. A. to a service. There was a wonderful chaplain, and the best singing I’ve heard for a long time, by a quartet. They sang the “Battle Hymn of the Republic” to close the service, and, after the service, songs of all kinds, some popular, some sentimental, and some lovely part songs. The man who took the bass had the strongest, gentlest kind of face, and he sang something about home that he said always made him feel homesick, and every one more or less wept, and felt better for it. Afterwards, we sat about and talked, and had chocolate and sandwiches. Mr. T. introduced a perfectly killing sergeant to me, who, as he said, is “pure gold.” He used to be a miner, and none of the edges are rubbed off, but he is jolly, and wholesome, and most gentle by nature, and killingly funny, too. He worked out West, where I guess he met Baron Munchausen, and beat him all to pieces telling yarns. He certainly got off some wonderful ones last night, and said he’d written them home to his girl and hoped the censor’d let them through. It surely would be worth a censor’s while to read them! When we went away he said, “Well, good-bye, if I don’t get killed, I hope we’ll meet again.”

I inclose “Iodine and Pills,” a “trench verse” they are fond of singing, as the men are given those two remedies for most of their ailments. They go up to the trenches singing it, and I wonder _what_ the Germans think! They think hardly at all about the Germans, except as a menace to be removed from the opposite trench. The Germans have tried a lot of stunts to fool the Americans, but haven’t succeeded at all, as our soldiers seem to consider No Man’s Land as belonging to the Americans, and “no trespassing” of any kind is allowed. Our soldiers don’t talk much about the French, either. They all say they’re here to get things done as fast as they can, and then go home. None of them want to stay a minute longer. When they do speak of the French, it’s “that poilu with the citations,” or “that old lady who dried my shoes,” etc.

These are answers to some questions that we asked them: _What do you eat?_ Flapjacks for breakfast, biscuits, meat balls, butter, fried potatoes, bacon, coffee (“Java”), bread (“punk”); “cup in one hand, mess kit in the other, keep the line a-moving.” “Chow”--meals or food; chow call is blown on a bugle behind the lines, but the proper name is mess call. The food comes in thermos cans at the front, actually into the trenches, so they get it hot. Dinner consists of beans, beef, potatoes, coffee, blackberry jam; supper of hash, “slum-stew,” with or without the jacket, and “camouflage-slum,” stew with a crust (“deep-sea slum” is watery stew with boiled potatoes), doughnuts, biscuits and butter and sirup, stewed prunes, stewed figs, apple fritters, corn fritters; not all that at one meal, though. When you work for supper you have three big sandwiches, otherwise you have a good supper. _Where do you sleep?_ Sleep in a dugout in the trenches, otherwise anywhere, over, under, or among cows. Every sleeping place is marked with its inhabitants, for instance: 1 corporal, 3 men, 2 cows, 6 chickens; 4 horses, 40 men. Billets are classified; a haymow takes from eighteen to twenty men. Sometimes you can fill a bag with straw for a mattress and make a bed of boxes and chickenwire. _How do you get your letters?_ Letters and packages are delivered to you right where you are.

_IODINE AND PILLS_

Iodine and pills!
Iodine and pills!
Good for the rheumatism,
Good for the chills;
Bones may be broken,
Mumps in your gills,
Iodine and pills will cure you--
Iodine and pills.

Chambéry, March 3, 1918.

I must tell you more about our soldiers. We are so proud of their behavior, as a whole, that we don’t know what to do. Certainly as P. S. put it, “life is stripped of all its fixings” over here, and the wonderful part of it is that you find so many more beautiful qualities in people than, at home, you would think they could have.

These men have had no leave for nine months, and have had their baptism of fire, too, and they seem to crave to talk to you about everything under the sun, usually about home, but often about the War, too. The Y. M. C. A. is really homelike, so they crowd it, and talk to the workers, or just sit and drink in the atmosphere. As one of them expressed it, “You’ve no idea what it means to us to see honest-to-God American women around.” One of them told Miss Davison that if the American women were taken away from them, they’d shoot themselves, and she was almost frightened by his look. I don’t believe you, over there, can realize the state of mind they are in--they are very alert and sensitive in every fiber, so that the slightest thing one says or does influences them. Of course, it’s a strain for us, as we have to keep them interested and amused. Anything at all emotional is too much for them,--and we _have_ to be calm. For instance, the day before they left, the quartet sang “My Little Gray Home in the West” very beautifully. Nearly every man was almost in tears, and the quartet had to sing something crazy quickly, to bring back their balance again. Afterwards, one of the men remarked, “We can’t stand much of that, you know.”

Mr. T. introduced a little man with red hair to me. This is what he told me about him: a French aëroplane came down in No Man’s Land, in broad daylight. The pilot and observer were both dazed, and made for the _German_ trenches. Out hops the little red-haired man from ours, dashes across No Man’s Land, turns the observer and pilot around, and leads them back to our trenches. Then he goes back to the aëroplane, takes out all the photographs and plates, and brings them back. Meanwhile, every German sniper is firing at him, and, two seconds after he left the aëroplane, it was blown to smithereens by a shell. When I congratulated him, he blushed crimson and said, “Oh, that was nothin’, any one else who’d thought of it would have done it, you know.” Then he hastily changed the conversation to gas masks, and we chatted gaily for a while. Afterwards he came up to say “Good-bye” and said, “That was the nicest conversation I’ve had, since we’ve been in France. I haven’t had the pleasure of talking with an American lady before.”

While I was taking a photograph of a group of soldiers, a boy, who was standing watching, looked as if he wanted his picture taken, too. I found he wanted to send it to his guardian. “She’s an old lady, you know,” he said, “and if you take me up against a house, she’ll think I’m in a city, and not get worried so much.”

Another little boy, with a southern accent, told me that he knew how to speak French,--he could say, “Oui-oui.” When he got to the hotel, he had a trench cough, and the landlady, being a motherly soul, asked him something. He said “Oui-oui,” cheerfully, and, before he knew it, he was whopped into bed with a huge mustard plaster clapped on his chest, and, in that helpless state, made to drink something hot that tasted “something awful,” before the zealous landlady sent for the American doctor. Another boy fell desperately in love with a French girl, and wanted to marry her before going back to the front. He went to see the Provost Marshal, the Colonel, the Préfet, and, in fact, all the authorities about it. The French girl was a bit amazed at such headlong American methods. Her mother objected of course, and, as neither of them spoke a word of English, nor he a word of French, they came to Monsieur Lugon to beg him to interpret for them, and explain that the girl wished to wait until after the war.

An old sergeant, who has been in the Army twenty-seven years, said he bet his wife that the war would be over by Christmas of last year: “Of course I didn’t believe it,” said he, “but it makes a subject for conversation with her.”

We went to see them off at the station when the troop train came to take them away, and we rode with them as far as Aix. I can’t tell you what it was like to see them go away. We shook hands with all, and stood and waved good-byes to them, and they all waved caps and handkerchiefs out of the windows, and called as they passed us, “Look at me, Miss Davison; wave to me, Mrs. Lee; Miss Bradley, Good-bye!” and away the train went. We could see them waving as long as it was in sight.

Chambéry, March 10.

This week we went to a place where there had been a railway accident, not a very bad one, but to English troops. Mrs. Lee thought that they might need things, and also that there might be no one there who could speak English, so we filled up Maggie with all kinds of bandages, and went. We had difficulties getting there, as the snow got deeper and deeper as we climbed, and if we had met something it would have been impossible to pass it. We did come upon a car, and had a wretched time creeping slowly behind it for miles, until, eventually, we got to a bridge where there was space to pass.

When we got to the town nearest the accident, it was swarming with Tommies, such nice looking ones, too. We didn’t get to the hospital until eight at night, and, sure enough, there was only one nurse and she spoke no English. We asked if we might see the men, but when we went into the wards, they were nearly all asleep, or rather trying to sleep, after the accident. I never saw such grit as they have. Imagine being shut in a box car that has fallen off an embankment, and unable to get out, with eight horses kicking around you. When they heard English spoken, they nearly all opened their eyes and smiled at us. Some of them weren’t really very badly hurt, but much shaken up. We gave them some tobacco and the never-to-be-forgotten comfort bags. One boy, the worst hurt, was in a room by himself and only half conscious. When Mrs. Lee went up to him and said a few words in English, he smiled, and opened his one openable eye, and said cheerfully, “Oh, I’m quite all right, thanks very much.” He wasn’t, at all, poor dear, because he had bad internal injuries, too.

Most of them were excited and glad to talk. One man who had the Mons Star and had never been wounded before, grinned and said, “We was just lucky enough, yes Ma’am.” He had a bandage around his head, a broken arm, rib, and ankle.

Mrs. Lee arranged with the nurse to write home to their families, and then we left them, because they mustn’t be excited. It was good to see the restful expression that came over their faces, when they shut their eyes to go to sleep again, after they’d been speaking English a little.

I am sending you a picture of the Belgians outside the tuberculosis hospital here. The little boy on crutches, in the foreground, is the one who had his leg cut off, and was singing in his bed, the day we gave the bag to the German prisoner.

Chambéry, March 22, 1918.

We have changed our dépôt here to a room in the château of the Dukes of Savoy. It is most romantic, as the room is in the old part of the château, directly over the portcullis, and the walls are about six feet thick. The view from it is magnificent, out towards the Alps and across the basin where Chambéry is. Imagine the bandages and pillows you so carefully make at home, on shelves in a thirteenth century castle. They don’t stay there long, however, as we take them to the hospitals almost as soon as we get them.

Chambéry, March 26, 1918.

The war news to-day seems as black as it can be, unless it gets blacker to-morrow. People stand in crowds where the communiqués are posted, almost breathless. There is a feeling that _this_ is the great battle of the War, as a deciding factor in its outcome. The Germans cannot win,--still they continue to advance, and we were prepared as much as possible.

Last night the ---- United States Engineers, who were on leave here, were summoned back to their regiments after only two days’ leave. They left, singing, and the whole town turned out to see them off.

To-day, the allied communiqués state that Bapaume has fallen, and Noyon is being evacuated. All kinds of rumors circulate as to new kinds of gas shells used by the Germans, and that, with the fact that Paris is being shelled, adds to the anxiety of the hour.

Chambéry, Easter, March 31.

Since I last wrote, we have been on a trip to visit hospitals in two lonely and remote places. They have no comforts at all, but they are not badly off, as they have at present very few sick and wounded, so the patients get good care. Probably, a year ago, I should have been horrified at their desolateness, but now that I see them clean, and the men well cared for, as far as bare essentials go, I say they aren’t badly off.

The weather has been perfect, and now the cherry trees are all out, and the violets and primroses are in masses everywhere, not to speak of periwinkles like little blue stars.

I have a very amusing letter from Phil, in which he describes a football game, for all the world like the game of croquet in “Alice”; only instead of the Duchess yelling “Off with her head,” German shells kept landing all around, until they found themselves lined up against nobody, as the opposing side had taken to shelter, and had disappeared like Alice’s wickets.

If you want to “see America,” I’ve decided that the best way is to come to France, for you certainly see men from all parts, fresh from home, and untainted to an extraordinary degree by any outside influences. Though they are wonderfully quick to register impressions, and to improve their shining hours by taking in all the French can show them, yet they remain absolutely _frankly_ American, and don’t try to be anything else. Considering that they are of all kinds, that is really wonderful, and gives you great faith in America as a nation. They do take suggestions from others in matters that are practical, but they have faith only in American things, and leave the foreigner to his own ways mostly.

One American, who was here (I didn’t see him, but Miss Davison told me about him), was taken prisoner by the Germans and escaped. Ten of them were captured. The Germans took them back of the lines blindfolded, and tortured them, in the hope that they would answer questions about transports, etc. Miss Davison said she didn’t dare ask what was done to them, but one thing was to burn them. The man she saw was taken prisoner in January, and he still had an unhealed ring of raw flesh around his wrist, from being burned by mustard gas.

After the Germans had finished torturing them, they were put in the end of some barracks, with one guard over them. Their arms were taken away, of course, but their tobacco and matches were left them. At one end of the room they were in, was a huge pile of packing and excelsior. They decided to escape at once, so they calmly planned it in English, while the guard stood by, not understanding them. One of them got behind a post; another set fire to the excelsior. The guard started to put the fire out. They grabbed his gun, dispatched him, and, in the confusion, escaped. Soon they came to an outpost, they also got this guard’s gun and ammunition; five of them had disappeared by then, and, they think, were killed.

Then they started to walk to the front and France. What their adventures were, I don’t know. They traveled at night, and guided themselves by the stars, one of them being a Westerner and used to it. At last, they were all so tired they couldn’t go any farther. A Frenchman came up to them, took them in, and gave them food and a rest, and told them where the American lines were. They were in Alsace. Somehow they got through Switzerland, and back to the Americans. Never again, they say, will they be taken prisoners.

I am so glad, H., that you like the hospital work. You are doing better than I am, as during the two operations that I saw, I had to go out about eight times.

Every day, I want more to get back home (how I hate this chaotic mix up!) and I should take the first boat if there were any real reason for going, but somehow one can’t leave here when there is so much to do, and one is really needed.

I often wonder what we’ll all do after the war--to sit down in the same old rut will be impossible; but, as S. says, there’s always a vista ahead, and, when we come home and get off at the docks, I imagine there’ll be one waiting behind the Statue of Liberty, leading on to the Promised Land.

Chambéry, April 6, 1918.

We have been fearfully busy distributing bags in the hospitals for the Easter fêtes. I think in four days, we must have distributed about seven hundred bags, besides visiting all the hospitals in Aix and Chambéry twice, to know the exact number of soldiers to give bags to. The men are pouring in, some every day, and the hospitals are filling up. They send here mostly men with small wounds, or sick men--a great many seem to be suffering from rheumatism and indigestion, I suppose as a result of the winter. The Verdun-Nancy Sector send their people here. That is interesting, as they are the French who have been with the Americans. I asked one man who had been with our artillery, if it was good, and he said, “très bon,” but that they didn’t yet realize all that war was, and needed seasoned men with them. I wish I hadn’t told him I was American when I asked him, as he might have said more. Quite often they take me for French, especially when they come from the provinces and speak with an accent themselves.

Of course, with the offensive on, we have no Americans here on leave now, and probably shall not have until it is over.

The weather here is perfect, and as for the country! I have never seen so many kinds of flowers in my life. Every kind of fruit tree and hawthorn is in bloom, and the meadows are carpeted like tapestry with jonquils, primroses, cowslips, buttercups, pâquerettes, violets, and anemones, besides many other flowers, the names of which I do not know. I also heard a nightingale the other day. I never have seen such a beautiful spring.

One of the boys, who came down from Noyon, said that all the old trenches there were nearly obliterated with flowers of every kind, growing wild, but now, just about a week later, they are being used again for war!

There is a very nice little old lady, a teacher of English in the schools here, who loves walking, and every time I get a chance I go with her. She knows the most heavenly walks, up little grassy lanes in the mountains. On our way home the other day, we saw an old woman and a little boy ploughing a field. Hitched to the plow were two cows. I wish I could have had a picture of them. It is typical of how the labor on the soil is now done in this region, on the little patchwork fields.

P.S. Mrs. Baker got a loaf of white bread from the United States Army, as a present, the other day. It tasted just as cake would have at home.

Chambéry, April 14, 1918.

Still the battle continues, and we all hold our breath and wait. A wounded French corporal, who came here the other day, said that the English were fighting like demons, and keeping the morale and courage of the French at top pitch by their wonderful example, the example of every man among them. We sit and wonder, and hear of Paris being bombed and shelled.

No men arrive on leave, nor will arrive for some weeks, and, when they do, they will have learned what war is. Wounded are coming in slowly now,--but coming.

The regiment, that belongs in this neighborhood in peace times, has been practically wiped out, this last week. The Colonel, Commandant, and staff were in a château, watching operations. Things were very critical, when suddenly they saw English reënforcements coming. The English reached the château, suddenly turned, and began firing on their allies! They were Germans, dressed as English! The Colonel was killed, the Commandant taken prisoner, and, though they made the Germans pay dearly for their little ruse, they were nearly all killed before communications were reëstablished.

I have come to know a good many people here now. They are extremely nice, and lately, as work has been slack, on account of the impossibility of getting supplies from Paris, I have had time to take tea and to walk with some of them. It is pleasant to see something of the outside world, and helps, I hope, besides, in spreading good feeling between the Americans and the French.

One of the officers, who has been in several places, says that the feeling towards the Americans is warmer in Chambéry than anywhere else he has been. I can’t help thinking that it is partly due to the fact that the A. F. F. W. came here winter before last, before America was in the War. It is important, of course, to keep up the feeling, and it is certainly very agreeable.

The other day, the head of the United States Medical Department here came to lunch with us. He came to France a year ago, and as the British were short of medical officers, he served with them, and was gassed twice.

I now see why there are such terrible losses in the medical units. The young doctors go over the top, just behind the men who are charging. This doctor said he went over three times in one day, and each time he took one third of his stretcher bearers with him. He worked for three days before he was able to assemble his men, and have roll call. Then, out of five hundred stretcher bearers, only one hundred and fifty answered. He says, that though they are unarmed and wear a Red Cross arm band, they are shot at by snipers, when dressing the wounded.

He told us that once he had been attending to six badly wounded men in a shell hole, and he started to come out to go to another hole where he heard some others calling for help, but he was immediately shot at. He couldn’t believe it, and put his hat up on the end of a bayonet, to see which direction the shots were coming from. Then he got out again, in such a way that his arm band would be plainly seen at the place from which the shots came. They shot again. Then he took off his arm band, borrowed a Tommy’s rifle, and, while one of the Tommies moved a helmet on a bayonet, he crawled around behind the sniper and “winged him.” He then went over and dressed the sniper’s wound, and took his arm band out of his pocket, waving it in the Boche’s face. The Boche merely shook his head, raised his eyebrows, and said “Ya, Ya.”

A. F. F. W. DÉPÔT AT CHAMBÉRY]

Chambéry, Savoie, April 21st, 1918.

Yesterday, we went to see a family of refugees, and took them clothes and refugee bags. The family consisted of a mother and six children, the oldest an undersized boy of thirteen. It was pathetic to see their joy over the toys in the bags, as, of course, they had had nothing like that since the War began. The oldest little girl of eleven was proud, too, of the clothes we brought them, and began at once to plan how they could be made over. In their entire little house, they had one chair, two benches, a table, a stove, two glasses, three cups, a few plates and spoons. We did not see the back room where they slept. The children and the house were all scrupulously clean. The mother and little boy and oldest girl worked in the fields, and the younger children went to school.

When we asked them whether they found food available there, they said that their neighbors were very good to them and brought them potatoes, etc. The neighbors are as poor as they are.

We go often to see refugee families, and Miss Wells, of the Red Cross, who is here looking after the refugees in Isère and Savoie, and who is very efficient and very nice, has promised us shoes and beds for them. We are doing the clothing part and are coöperating with the Red Cross practically, as well as theoretically, here.

If the refugees can, they pay for the beds and furniture on the installment plan, for giving the things outright tends to make them sit back, and look on their lives as irreparably broken.

It seems almost inconceivable, when we drive into the loveliest little villages, to find the most abject misery. In one town we found a little boy with whooping cough, so they said, and a very bad throat. Mrs. Baker went to the Préfecture and got them to send a doctor at once, but the next time we went, we heard that he had died of diphtheria. The woman who looked after the family, until the father arrived, as the mother was grief-stricken is a perfect wonder. Uneducated, and dirty to a degree,--but she had no soap,--she took care of her own three small children, two belonging to the woman whose child had diphtheria, and another family, consisting of a mother with a new-born baby, and six children. All are refugees. She looks very thin and tired, but now it will not be so hard for her. She said she found it hard to ask for things,--but she had no needle and thread to mend with,--could we bring her some? The children under four didn’t know what sugar was. They look healthy but nearly all have something the matter, either skin-disease, or swollen glands, or ear trouble.

The Red Cross has now made us part of their Casualty Bureau, to look up U. S. soldiers who have somehow got lost, and are “missing.” Sometimes they have been wounded with the French, and have been put in a French hospital; sometimes, perhaps, they haven’t written home, and their families are making inquiries, or sometimes they may have written, but their letters have been censored out, as our censor is very strict. We keep getting notices asking us to look up U. S. soldiers who are “missing,” but we have found only one American in a hospital here, and he has rheumatism, and isn’t lost.

Lady Baird is back here again working for the Belgians, and has a nurse to work under her. She is also starting social work for the men, through some ladies who are coming especially for that purpose. They are to live together near the hospital, and devote all their time to working for the men.

Madame R. and I went there this afternoon in the rain, and gave the men oranges, and some other things we bought for them. They were pathetically grateful, and above all eager to be talked to. Some of the new ones, boys of twenty and twenty-two, speak English and have lived in England, and after being wounded have been nursed in English hospitals. Imagine the contrast! One boy of twenty said he had been “réformé” on account of wounds, but had asked to go back to fight. He was then taken prisoner, and is now back, exchanged, and dying up here of tuberculosis.

The battle of Picardy, up north, continues with no decision, and no slackening of anxiety.

Chambéry, Savoie, May 5, 1918.

Letters certainly do make the most tremendous difference to one over here, especially letters from home. I was in the most terrific gloom and couldn’t imagine exactly why,--then to-day, I came downstairs and found the B letter box full of letters with U. S. postage stamps on them;--it had been empty for nearly four solid weeks. I had heard, too, that cables had been stopped; of course it was probably only a rumor, but one couldn’t help wondering what under the sun was happening, and feeling rather like a detached and dark meteor, sailing through space. You can’t imagine how jubilant I’ve been feeling, ever since I got those letters.

The Liberty Loan parade must have been quite impressive. A tank going down Commonwealth Avenue! It does seem as if the earth was really turned inside out.

Oh, I am so utterly _sick_ from the War! It is a rotten business from beginning to end. One has to _think_: “one little ray of pure white light is worth a boundless space of darkness,” but the darkness is so black just now that many people have forgotten that the light exists, and so there is misery, and wickedness, and hopelessness at every hand--until the most unexpected moments sometimes. Then one sees the light, quite like the Holy Grail journeying through the world in King Arthur’s time. It appears unexpectedly, and vanishes, but you know it has been there. But enough of that.

This week we have been most frightfully busy. We went to a school where réformés are learning new trades. Every man there had either a hand or a foot or two missing, yet there they were, cheerful as could be, learning to be shoemakers, tailors, to make baskets, and learning to write again. The most cheerful man in the whole place was one in a roller chair, with both legs off at the knees. He was learning to be a cobbler, and was whistling a merry tune when we came in. We gave each one a sac-surprise, and a shirt from “l’Amérique,” and they were overjoyed, especially with the sacs, which are always an unalloyed pleasure. We tell them that the sacs come straight to them from some one in America, and they are delighted beyond words, and so _disappointed_ if there isn’t a letter in the bag from some one whom they may thank. The funniest things sometimes make them the happiest. The other day, when we gave out the sacs, I heard a joyous “Oh, que je suis heureux!” from behind me, and there was a poilu with a little wooden duck on wheels, that opened and shut his mouth with a clack when he rolled. Now that poilu may be seen in Aix, walking slowly down the street on his crutches, and behind him, so good and faithful, the little duck on a string, clacking along, truly conversational and companionable--most comforting and sympathetic to the little poilu.

We also went this week, to see a hospital with nothing but old people, refugees, in it. I almost couldn’t bear it. Some of them were quite out of their heads, and others were childish, and all so old. They all came from the invaded districts, and, even when the War is over, they never can go back, yet in some of them there is still the desire to go home,--to a home that does not exist. Some of them have been well off too, and now they are propped up in beds in long lines, immaculately clean,--some with sorrow stamped on their faces, some with gentleness and kindness, and others with worldliness and meanness,--all together, to stay probably until they die. Some can go out and sit in the sun, and gossip and knit, but most are too rheumatic. Poor old souls! The place they are in has the most romantic name,--Pont de Beauvoisin. I wonder how the name came, don’t you?

Another day we took some furniture up into the back country, to some refugees. We had four chairs hooked over the hood of the Ford, one chair out over the side, held on by Mrs. Baker, and behind, Maggie was bulging with two beds, two mattresses, and pillows. As you can imagine, every one stared at us, and probably thought us crazy. Naturally, we met a hay-cart on a narrow road. It betook itself to the field, with much “Ugh-aaa”-ing by the drivers to the oxen, and we got by with triumph.

Coming home from Aix one evening, we were stopped at the crossroads by a woman. She told us that one of the refugee women at Viviers was ill, and could we get a doctor at once, as she seemed in a very bad state. We therefore hurried back to Chambéry, and Mrs. Baker telephoned to most of the doctors in town, and eventually got one. I then started out with him, and some blankets, and an American Ambulance man, Mr. Ware, to get the woman and bring her to the hospital if need be. You have no idea what a lovely drive it was in the moonlight, with the nightingales singing around us, and the feathery white onion blossoms, like ghosts of flowers, dim, under the trees by the roadside. Truth forces me to add that they smelt of onions, too! At last we came to the lake, quiet in the moonlight under the mountains, and went slowly through the tiny village, where the warm candle light was streaming out of the windows of the houses.

When we came to the house, the doctor went up to see the woman, while Mr. Ware and I waited to see what his verdict would be, and there, in the peaceful moonlight, one of the neighbors told us the refugee woman’s story.

She and her little girls had escaped from St. Michel (Aisne), after being under the Germans for three years. Her husband and son of seventeen had been kept there to work. “She has been through everything,--everything, the poor woman, and she has nothing. But she is proud; she is ashamed to tell us that she is hungry, she would rather go without. But we know what it is to be in need, and we give her from what we have ourselves, and she has to take it for the children,--but for herself, never anything. She cries when she thanks us, but we understand, and we give as much as possible, a little at a time, so that she won’t find it out. She would do the same thing for us,--que voulez-vous?”

Then she went on to tell us about the woman’s life under the Germans. She was put in prison. I asked what for. “Because she tried to get some milk for her children.” Then, because she refused to work, they beat her until her leg became all black, and she was very ill in prison. But there was a Boche doctor who was good. He came at night “in secret,” and cared for her and her children, brought them food and a bottle of iodine that cost eight francs!--a tiny bottle. If he had been caught, he would have been punished too. Eventually, she was evacuated and came here, “but she has lost all her strength.”

When the doctor came downstairs, he said that she was too ill to be moved just then, but, in a day or two, we are going to take her to the hospital. Yesterday, she was much better. The neighbors take care of her and the children, and see that the children get to school. The oldest girl is nine years old and just learning her letters. She was five when the War started, but, in the “invaded country,” she wasn’t allowed to go to school.

Did I tell you that we have four American boys to help us lift cases and do heavy work? They say “Oui” to every outburst on the part of the French with whom they come in contact. The other day we were taking mattresses down from an attic, to be made over. The woman who showed them to us was thrilled to have American soldiers heave things about. She was about sixty and had a red wig.

Says she: “Que Monsieur est fort!”

“Oui.”

“Combien de matelas, Monsieur peut-il porter à la fois?”

“Oui.”

“Monsieur comprend le Français?”

“Oui.”

“C’est ça, venez avec moi chercher les matelas.”

“Oui.” Stands firmly rooted.

“Mais, Monsieur, venez avec moi!”

“Oui,--say, Miss Bradley, she’s getting excited about something, you’d better come here.” Explanation.

“Ah! Monsieur ne comprend _pas_ le Français!”

“Oui.”

Heave! plunk! comes a mattress out of the window from two stories up, which completely shatters the nerves of all the surrounding hens and chickens, as well as of the lady of the red wig.

A French soldier was here the other night wearing a most wonderful decoration. One of the U. S. soldiers wanted to know what it was, so he tapped a little white-haired man, who was standing by, on the shoulder and said: “Say, can you please tell me just what decoration that feller has on?” The man looked surprised, backed off, and said nothing. We found out afterwards that he was the King of Montenegro, and, they say, prone to hang people “for nothing at all”!

Well, good night; neither my brain nor my pen will work any more. Guess what I’ve been playing to-night with one of the U. S. soldiers, and two Albert girls, chaperoned by Monsieur Albert, père, while brother Albert, on leave from the front, was making up verses in the corner? We played Pounce! my children, Pounce! The great tonic for forgetfulness. They call it something else, but ’tis the same old game.

Chambéry.

Last week we saw some more refugees, poor, pathetic, old people! We carried the very feeble and sick ones in our “ambulance” from the station to the houses where they are to live. There was one poor young woman with dreadful bronchitis, and her two little children, also both sick; several old women unable to walk, and two old blind brothers, who clung pitifully to each other and to their bundles of belongings, for fear of being separated.

All had pathetic stories,--the old men were all that was left of a family of nine brothers, the rest of whom had been taken away to Germany; the young woman’s husband had been taken away before her eyes, she did not know where, and the old women had their children and grandchildren all taken away too. As the old men went up the steps of the hospital, one said to the other, “Count the steps, mon frère, we must become familiar with them, so that we can be independent here.”

One woman of fifty, whom Mrs. Baker saw, was bedridden, and said she was discouraged because she had so long to wait to die. Mrs. Baker said, “Yes, but your patience will be recompensed by a great, great crown,” and the sick woman smiled and kept repeating, “une grande, grande couronne.”

A few days later, we went to see some of them again, at a home for refugees. When they heard that an American automobile was at the door, they came flocking out to see it, on canes and crutches, and slowly down the steps, one and all to ask me the same question: “When will the Americans save France?” I did not dare tell them it might take years, they were all so old and full of hope. So I told them that our men were wonderful, strong soldiers, and gentle, too,--as they are with old people and children,--and that surely France would be delivered by them.

They wanted to know, too, whether we would keep on feeding the invaded country, for without our food, they said, they would all have died. I told them that we never forget the brave people in the invaded country.

Poor old people! You should have seen them, all so eager and happy with the renewed hope that they might see the end of the War. I had to tell them, too, never to despair, for the Americans have a long way to come, but that we are coming, coming, as fast as we can, and that if we suffer reverses, we will only go on with more courage, and never stop until all France is free!

Transcriber's Notes:

Italics are shown thus: _sloping_.

Variations in spelling and hyphenation are retained.

Perceived typographical errors have been changed.