The correspondents have a tough life. They are quartered in a good—judged by French standards—hotel, and are not what you could call overworked. There is nothing to write about, and if you wrote about it you probably couldn’t get it through.
Mr. Corey, one of these slaves, invited me to accompany him to an infantry billet, some eighteen miles distant. We sailed along over the perfect roads at an average speed of about sixty, slowing up in the villages to dodge a harmless course among the cows, chickens and children, all of whom use the middle of Main Street for their playground.
We passed an occasional soldier, but it was a nice clear day, and the large majority were out in the fields and hills rehearsing. Our boys, I’m told, are getting quite a workout. Usually they leave their billets at seven in the morning, walk from six to twelve miles to a drill ground, and work till half past four in the afternoon. Then they take the long hike “home” and wonder how soon supper will be ready. Frequently, however, there is practise in night trench warfare, and then the grind continues till ten or eleven o’clock. The work is hard, but so, by this time, are the boys.
The captain on whom we called said he was glad to meet me, which is the first time that has happened in France. We asked him whether there was any news. He said yes, that the Salvation Army had established headquarters in the camp.
“I’m glad,” he remarked, “that they’ve decided to go in on our side. It may influence the Kaiser’s friend Gott.”
The chief need of the soldiers, he went on, was amusement. The Salvation Army’s and Y.M.C.A.’s efforts were appreciated, but continual rations of soup and meat palled at times, and a little salad and dessert, in the form of Charlie Chaplin or the Follies, would make life more bearable.
“Some American theatrical producer,” said the captain, “could win our undying gratitude by shipping over a stock company with a small repertory of shows, with music, and girls. I believe he’d find it profitable too. When the boys get paid they don’t know what to do with their money. There’s nothing to spend it on in these parts.”
The captain invited us to dinner, but we had a previous date with members of the Censorship Bureau. These entertained us with stories which I voluntarily delete. From their hotel we returned to our own, held a brief song service in the correspondents’ mess, and called it a day.
Friday, August 31. At an American Camp.
“Would you like to meet General Sibert?” asked Mr. Corey.
General Sibert’s name is one of the two that may be mentioned.
I said I would, and we left after breakfast for the next village, where headquarters is situate. In the outer office were some clerks and a colonel. The latter could never be accused of excessive cordiality.
“The general is busy,” he said.
“How long will he be busy?” inquired Mr. Corey.
“I have no idea,” said the colonel.
Mr. Corey and I felt we would be warmer outdoors, so we climbed back in our car and asked our sergeant-driver to take us to the nearest training grounds. Here an infantry regiment was going through simple drill, and calisthentics which were far from simple.
The nearest captain approached, smiled pleasantly and asked what he could do for us. We introduced ourselves.
“Correspondents, eh?” he said.
“Well, then, you can do something for us—make the newspapers and magazines quit calling us Sammies. We’ve never done anything to deserve a name like that.”
“What’s the matter with it?” we inquired.
“Everything!” said the captain. “It doesn’t fit, it sounds childish, and we just naturally hate it.”
We asked him whether there was an acceptable substitute.
“I don’t know of any,” he said. “In due time we’ll wish one on ourselves that will have pep and sound real. Meanwhile call us Julias, Howards—anything you like, except Sammies.”
We promised to do our best for him, and he was grateful enough to invite us to his mess for lunch.
This young man—he looks about twenty-nine—hasn’t been to his home, somewhere out West, since he left West Point, six years ago. He hasn’t seen a show in six years. Mexico and the Philippines have kept him busy. His promotion from lieutenant to captain is very recent, and he still wears only one stripe. “I suppose I’ll be a major before I get the other,” he said. “A man can hardly keep up with his rank these days.”
He called our attention to the physical condition of his men.
“You’ve got to be in the pink to go through those exercises without yelling for help,” he said. “These fellas couldn’t have done it a month ago. Now they seldom get tired, though the hours are pretty stiff. Today is a cinch. It’s payday, and there’s a muster soon after lunch. So most of us will get a half holiday and nobody’ll object.”
The captain blew his whistle to indicate that the game was over. His boys quit happily, and we left him after agreeing to show up at his billet in time for lunch.
“We have a fairly good cook,” he promised. “But what is much more important, we have a beautiful young lady to wait on us.”
Our next stop was at a trench school. Americans, under French tutelage, had constructed a perfect—so we were told—system of ditches and entanglements, and had shown aptitude in learning the offensive and defensive points of this pleasant method of warfare. They were now engaged in bomb-throwing drill. Some of them had tried the baseball throw, but had found the grenades too heavy. Several crooked-arm throws would do things to a person’s elbow. But, according to the officers, the youngsters had done very well with the bowling motion and had surprised the French with their accuracy.
This officer, another captain, spoke in complimentary terms of the French assistance.
“They’ve been more than diligent with us,” said he. “They’ve never shown impatience when
