Instantly the cellar woke up. The soldiers’ faces grew young again, they flattened themselves laughingly against the walls of the entrance, the door above was cautiously opened, and a girl in a long blue cloak appeared at the head of the stairs.
“Well, boys—you see I managed it!” she cried; and Tony instantly recognized the piercing accents and azure gaze of Miss Hinda Warlick.
“She managed it!” the whole cellar roared as one man, drowning her answer in a cheer: and “Of course I did!” she continued, laughing and nodding right and left as she made her triumphant way down the line of khaki to what, at her appearance, had somehow instantly become the stage at the further end of a packed theatre. The elderly Y.M.C.A. official who accompanied her puffed out his chest like a general, and blinked knowingly behind his gold eye-glasses.
Troy’s first movement had been one of impatience. He hated all that Miss Warlick personified, and hated it most of all on this sacred soil, and at this fateful moment, with the iron wings of doom clanging so close above their heads. But it would have been almost impossible to fight his way out through the crowd that had closed in behind her—and he stayed.
The cheering subsided, she gained her improvised platform—a door laid on some biscuit-boxes—and the recitation began.
She gave them all sorts of things, ranging from grave to gay, and extracting from the sentimental numbers a peculiarly piercing effect that hurt Troy like the twinge of a dental instrument. And her audience loved it all, indiscriminately and voraciously, with souls hungry for the home-flavour and long nurtured on what Troy called “cereal-fiction.” One had to admit that Miss Warlick knew her public, and could play on every chord.
It might have been funny, if it had not been so infinitely touching. They were all so young, so serious, so far from home, and bound on a quest so glorious! And there overhead, just above them, brooded and clanged the black wings of their doom … Troy’s mockery was softened to tenderness, and he felt, under the hard shell of his youthful omniscience, the stir of all the things to which the others were unconsciously responding.
“And now, by special request, Miss Warlick is going to say a few words,”—the elderly eye-glassed officer importantly announced.
Ah, what a pity! If only she had ended on that last jolly chorus, so full of artless laughter and tears! Troy remembered her dissertations on the steamer, and winced at a fresh display of such fatuity, in such a scene.
She had let the cloak slip from her shoulders, and stepped to the edge of the unsteady stage. Her eyes burned large in a face grown suddenly grave. “Only a few words, really,” she began, apologetically; and the cellar started a cheer of protest.
“No—not that kind. Something different …”
She paused long enough to let the silence prepare them; sharp little artist that she was! Then she leaned forward. “This is what I want to say; I’ve come from the French front—pretty near the edge. They’re dying there, boys—dying by thousands, now, this minute … But that’s not it. I know: you want me to cut it out—and I’m going to … But this is why I began that way: because it was my first sight of—things of that sort. And I had to tell you—”
She stopped, pale, her pretty mouth twitching.
“What I really wanted to say is this: Since I came to Europe, nearly a year ago, I’ve got to know the country they’re dying for—and I understand why they mean to go on and on dying—if they have to—till there isn’t one of them left. Boys—I know France now—and she’s worth it! Don’t you make any mistake! I have to laugh now when I remember what I thought of France when I landed. My! How d’you suppose she got on so long without us? Done a few things too—poor little toddler! Well—it was time we took her by the hand, and showed her how to behave. And I wasn’t the only one either. I guess most of us thought we’d have to teach her her letters. Maybe some of you boys right here felt that way too?”
A guilty laugh, and loud applause.
“Thought so,” said Miss Warlick smiling.
“Well,” she continued, “there wasn’t hardly anything I wasn’t ready to teach them. On the steamer coming out with us there was a lot of those Amb’lance boys. My! How I gassed them. I said the French had got to be taught how to love their mothers—I said they hadn’t any home-feeling—and didn’t love children the way we do. I’ve been round among them some since then, in the hospitals, and I’ve seen fellows lying there shot ’most to death, and their little old mothers in white caps arriving from ’way off at the other end of France. Well, those fellows know how to see their mothers coming even if they’re blind, and how to hug ’em even if their arms are off … And the children—the way they go on about children! Ever seen a French soldier yet that didn’t have a photograph of a baby stowed away somewhere in his dirty uniform? I never have. I tell you, they’re white! And they’re fighting as only people can who feel that way about mothers and babies. The way we’re going to fight; and maybe we’ll prove it to ’em sooner than any of us think …
“Anyhow, I wanted to get this off my chest tonight; not for you, only for myself. I didn’t want to have a shell get me before I’d said ‘Veever la France!’ before all of you.
“See here, boys—the Marsellaze!”
She snatched a flag from the wall, drawing herself up to heroic height; and the whole cellar joined her in a roar.
From The Marne, by Edith Wharton; D. Appleton and Co.; New York, 1918.
My God, Lady!
—Mildred Aldrich
March 1, 1917
Well, I have been very busy for some time now receiving the famous 118th regiment, and all on account of the flag. It had been going up in the “dawn’s early light,” and coming down “with the twilight’s last gleaming” for some weeks when the regiment marched past the gate again. I must tell you the truth—the first man who attempted to cry “Vivent les Etats-Unis” was hushed by a cry of “Attendez-patience—pas encore,” and the line swung by. That was all right. I could afford to smile,—and, at this stage of the game, to wait. You are always telling me what a “patient man” Wilson is. I don’t deny it. Still, there are others.
The very next day I got the most delicious type of all—the French-American—very French to look at him, but with New York stamped all over him—especially the speech. Of all these boys, this is the one I wish you could see.
When I opened the door for him, he stared at me, and then he threw up both hands and simply shouted, “My God it is true! My God, it is an American!”
Then he thrust out his hand and gave me a hearty shake, simply yelling, “My God, lady, I’m glad to see you. My God, lady, the sight is good for sore eyes.”
Then he turned to his comrade and explained, “J’ai dit a la dame,” and in the same breath he turned back to me and continued.
“My God, lady, when I saw them Stars and Stripes floating out there, I said to my comrade, ‘If there is an American man or an American lady here, my God, I am going to look at them,’ and my God, lady, I’m glad I did. Well, how do you do, anyway?”
I told him that I was very well, and asked him if he wouldn’t like to come in.
“My God, lady, you bet your life I do,” and he shook my hand again, and came in, remarking, “I’m an American myself—from New York—great city, New York—can’t be beat. I wish all my comrades could see Broadway—that would amaze them,” and then he turned away to his companion to explain, “J’ai dit a Madame que je voudrais bien que tous les copains pouvaient voir Broadway—c’est la plus belle rue de New York—ils seront epates—tous,” and then he turned to me to ask, “N’est-ce pas, Madame?”
I laughed. It did not seem worth while to tell him I did not live in New York, so I said “Boston,” and he declared it a “nice, pretty slow town,” he knew it, and, of course, he added, “But my god, lady, give me New York every time. I’ve lived there sixteen years—got a nice little wife there—here’s her picture—and see here, this is the name,” and he laid an envelope before me with a New York postmark
.
“Well,” I said, “if you are an American citizen, what are you doing here in a French uniform? The States are not in the war.”
His eyes simply snapped.
“My God, lady, I’m a Frenchman just the same. My God, lady, you don’t think I’d see France attacked by Germany and not take a hand in the fight, do you? Not on your life!”
I asked him, when I got a chance to put in a word, what he did in New York, and he told me he was a chauffeur, and that he had a sister who lived on Riverside Drive up by 76th Street. He launched into an enthusiastic description of Riverside Drive, and immediately put it all into French for the benefit of his copain, who stood by with his mouth open in amazement at the spirited English of his friend.
When he went away, he shook me again violently by the hand, exclaiming: “Well, lady, of course you’ll soon be going back to the States. So shall I. I can’t live away from New York. No one ever could who had lived there. Great country the States. I’m a voter—I’m a Democrat—always vote the Democratic ticket—voted for Wilson. Well, goodbye, lady.”
As he shook me by the hand again, it seemed suddenly to occur to him that he had forgotten something. He struck a blow on his forehead with his fist, and cried: “My God, lady, did I understand that you have been here ever since the war began? Then you were here during the battle out there? My God, lady, I’m an American, too, and my God, lady, I’m proud of you!”And he went off down the road explaining to his companion, “J’ai dit a madame,” etc.
From On the Edge of the War Zone, by Mildred Aldrich; Small, Maynard and Co.; Boston, 1917.
Nobody’s Land
—Ring Lardner
Camp Grant, Sept. 24.
FRIEND AL: Well Al they give us some work out today and I am pretty tired but they’s no use going to bed until 9 o’clock which is the time they blow the buggle for the men to shut up their noise. They do everything by buggles here. And we had to tell our family history to a personal officer that writes down all about you on a card and what kind of work you done before so if the General or somebody tears their pants they won’t have to chase all over the camp and page a taylor because they can look at the cards and find out who use to be a taylor and send for them to sew him up.
The officer asked me my name and age and etc. and what I had done in civil life so I said “I guess you don’t read the sporting page.” So he says “Oh are you a fighter or something?” So I said “I am a fighter now but I use to pitch for the White Sox.” So then he asked me what I done before that so I told him I was with Terre Haute in the Central League and Comiskey heard about me and bought me and then he sent me out to Frisco for a while and I stood that league on their head and he got me back and I been with him about 3 years.
So the officer asked me if I ever done anything besides pitch so I told him about the day I played the outfield in Terre Haute when Burns and Stewart shut their eyes going after a fly ball and their skulls came together and it sounded like a freight wreck.
So then the officer says “Yes but didn’t you do something when you wasn’t playing ball?” so I told him a pitcher doesn’t have to do nothing only set on the bench or hit fungos once in a while or warm up when it looks like the guy in there is beginning to wobble. So he says “Well I guess I will put you down as a pitcher and when we need one in a hurry we will know where to find one.” But I don’t know when they would need a pitcher Al unless it was to throw one of them bombs and believe me when it comes to doing that I will make a sucker out of the rest of these birds because if my arm feels O.K. they’s nobody got better control and if they tell me to stick one in a German’s right eye that is where I will put it and not in their stomach or miss them altogether like I was a left hander or something.
For dinner we had roast chicken and sweet potatoes and cream corn and biscuits and coffee and for supper there was bake beans with tomato sauce and bread and pudding and cake and coffee and the grub is pretty fair only a man can’t enjoy it because you got to eat to fast because if theys anything left on your plate when the rest of them birds get through you got to fight to keep it from going to the wrong address. Well Al its pretty near time for the tattoo buggle which means the men has got to shut up and keep quiet so I am going to get ready for bed but I don’t know if I would rather have them keep quiet or not because when they are keeping quiet you don’t know what they are up to and maybe they are snooping a round somewheres waiting for a man to go to sleep so they can cut your throat. Some of them has been use to doing it all their life Al and they are beginning to miss it. But I don’t know if I wouldn’t just as leave die that way as from those upsetting exercises.
Your pal,
Jack
On the Ship Board, Jan.15.
FRIEND AL: Well Al I suppose it is kind of foolish to be writeing you a letter now when they won’t be no chance to mail it till we get across the old pond but still and all a man has got to do something to keep busy and I know you will be glad to hear all about our trip so I might as well write you a letter when ever I get a chance and I can mail them to you all at once when we get across the old pond and you will think I have wrote a book or something.
Jokeing a side Al you are lucky to have an old pal thats going to see all the fun and write to you about it because its a different thing haveing a person write to you about what they see themself then getting the dope out of a newspaper or something because you will now that what I tell you is the real dope that I seen myself where if you read it in a newspaper you know its guest work because in the 1rst. place they don’t leave the reporters get nowheres near the front and besides that they wouldn’t go there if they had a leave because they would be to scared like baseball reporters that sets a mile from the game because they haven’t got the nerve to get down on the field where a man can take a punch at them and even when they are a mile away with a screen in front of them they duck when somebody hits a pop foul.
Well Al it is against the rules to tell you when we left the old U.S. or where we come away from because the pro Germany spy might get hold of a man’s letters some way and then it would be good night because he would send a telegram to where the submarines is located at and they wouldn’t send no 1 or 2 submarines after us but the whole German navy would get after us because they would figure that if they ever got us it would be a rich hall.
But we will get there some time and when we do you can bet we will show them something and I am tickled to death I am going and if I lay down my life I will feel like it wasn’t throwed away for nothing like you would die of tyford fever or something.
Your pal,
Jack
Somewheres in France, Jan. 26
FRIEND AL: Well old pal here we are and its against the rules to tell you where we are at but of course it doesn’t take no Shylock to find out because all you would have to do is look at the post mark that they will put on this letter.
Any way you couldn’t pronounce what the town’s name is if you see it spelled out because it isn’t nothing like how its spelled out and you won’t catch me trying to pronounce none of these names or talk French because I am off of languages for a while and good old American is good enough for me eh Al?
Well Al now that its all over I guess we was pretty lucky to get across the old pond without no trouble because between you and I Al I heard just a little while ago from one of the boys that three nights ago we was attacked and our ship just missed getting hit by a periscope and the destroyers went after the subs and they was a whole flock of them and the reason we didn’t hear nothing is that the death bombs don’t go off till they are way under water so you can’t hear them but between you and I Al the navy men say they was nine subs sank.
Well any way its all over now and here we are and you ought to of heard the people in the town here cheer us when we come in and you ought to see how the girls look at us and believe me Al they are some girls. Its a good thing I am an old married man or I believe I would be pretty near tempted to flirt back with some of the ones t
hat’s been trying to get my eye but the way it is I just give them a smile and pass on and they’s no harm in that and I figure a man always ought to give other people as much pleasure as you can as long as it don’t harm nobody.
Well Al everybody’s busier than a chicken with their head cut off and I haven’t got no more time to write. But when we get to where we are going I will have time maybe and tell you how we are getting along and if you want to drop me a line and I wish you would send me the Chi papers once in a while especially when the baseball training trips starts but maybe they won’t be no Jack Keefe to send them to by that time but if they do get me I will die fighting. You know me Al.
Your friend,
Jack
Somewheres in France, March 13.
FRIEND AL: Well Al I bet you will pretty near fall over in a swoon when you read what I have got to tell you. Somebody must have sent a coppy of the paper I told you about to Gen. Pershing and marked up what I wrote up so as he would be sure and see it and probably one of the officers done it. Well that’s either here or there but this afternoon when we come in they was a letter for me and who do you think it was from Al. Well you can’t never even begin to guess so I will tell you. It was from Gen. Pershing Al and it comes from Paris where he is and I have got it here laying on the table but they’s nothing to prevent me from copping down the letter so as you can read what it says and here it is.
PRIVATE KEEFE,
Dear Sir: My attention was called yesterday to an article written by you in your regimental paper under the title War and Baseball: Two Games Where Brains Wins. In this article you state that our generals would be better able to accomplish their task if they had enjoyed the benefits of strategic training in baseball. I have always been a great admirer of the national game of baseball and I heartily agree with what you say. But unfortunately only a few of us ever possessed the ability to play your game and few never were proficient enough to play it professionally. Therefore the general staff is obliged to blunder along without that capacity for quick thinking which is acquired only on the baseball field.
Where Wars Go to Die Page 29