Captain Jones stuck with me till my exit ticket was procured, a chore that ate up over an hour. Then we climbed into a dreadnought and came to this hotel, where I sat right down and versified as follows:
To an American Soldier
If you don’t like the nickname Sammy,
If it’s not all a nickname should be,
You can pick out Pat or Mike,
Whatever name you like—
It won’t make no difference to me.
Want a Thomas or Harry or Dick name?
Dost prefer to be called Joe or Lou?
You’ve a right to your choice of a nickname;
Oh, Mr. Yank, it’s up to you.
V
My Adventures at the British Front
Monday, September 3. Paris.
In this morning’s mail was a letter from Somewhere in London, replying favorably to my request to go to the British front. I was directed to take the letter to the assistant provost marshal, who would slip me a pass and inform me as to the details of the trip.
At the A.P.M.’s I was given the pass and with it “an undertaking to be signed by all intending visitors to the front.” There are ten rules in the undertaking, and some of them are going to be hard to obey. For example:
“I understand that it is impossible to arrange for me to see relatives serving with the fighting forces.”
“I will not visit the enemy front during the present war.”
But No. 6 is the tough one:
“In no circumstances will I deliver a political or electioneering speech to troops.”
I must pray for strength to resist natural impulses along this line.
Wednesday morning, said the A.P.M., would be our starting time. And he told us when and where to take the train—“us” because I am to be accompanied by a regular correspondent, one who carries a cane and everything.
Mr. Gibbons, the regular correspondent, informs me I must wear a uniform, and tomorrow morning I am to try on his extra one, which he has kindly offered.
Another chore scheduled for tomorrow is the squaring of myself with the boss of the French Maison de la Presse, who invited me to visit the devastated territory Thursday and Friday. The invitation was accepted, but the British and French dates conflict, and I would rather see one real, live front than any number of broken-down barns and boched trees.
Tuesday, September 4. Paris.
I reported, after the French idea of breakfast, at the Maison de la Presse. This is situate on the fourth floor of a building equipped with an elevator that proves the fallacy of the proverb “What goes up must come down.” You can dimly see it at the top of the shaft, and no amount of button pushing or rope pulling budges it.
During the long climb I rehearsed the speech of apology and condolence framed last night, and wondered whether monsieur would be game and try to smile or break down completely or fly into a rage. He was game, and he not only tried to smile, but succeeded. And his smile was in perfect simulation of relief. These French are wonderful actors.
I returned thence to Mr. Gibbons’ room for my fitting. His extra uniform consisted of a British officer’s coat and riding breeches, puttees and shoes. Cap and khaki shirt I had to go out and purchase. The store I first selected was a gyp joint and wanted twenty-seven francs for a cap. I went to another store and got exactly the same thing for twenty-six. A careful shopper can save a lot of money in Paris.
Provided with cap and shirt, the latter costing a franc less than the former, I went to a secluded spot and tried on the outfit, Mr. Gibbons assisting. We managed the puttees in thirty-five minutes. It is said that a man working alone can don them in an hour, provided he is experienced.
“You look,” Mr. Gibbons remarked when I was fully dressed, “as if you had been poured into it.”
But I felt as if I hadn’t said “when” quite soon enough. Mr. Gibbons and I differ in two important particulars—knee joints—and though I tried to seem perfectly comfortable, my knees were fairly groaning to be free of the breeches and out in the open fields.
“Wear it the rest of the day and get used to it,” advised Mr. Gibbons.
“No,” I said. “I don’t want to rumple it all up. I want to keep it neat for tomorrow.” And against his protest I tore myself out and resumed my humble Chicago garb.
It’s no wonder regular correspondents and British officers are obliged to wear canes. The wonder is that they don’t use crutches.
We leave at nine tomorrow morning. This means that myself and puttees will have to get up at four.
Wednesday, September 5. With the British.
The major has a very good sense of the fitness of things. The room where I’m writing, by candlelight, is the best guest room in our château and was once occupied by the queen.
The rules of the household call for the dousing of downstairs glims at eleven o’clock. After that you may either remain down there in total darkness or come up here and bask in the brilliant rays of a candle. You should, I presume, be sleepy enough to go right to bed, but you’re afraid you might forget something if you put off the day’s record till tomorrow.
I overslept myself, as they say, and had to get Mr. Gibbons to help with the puttees. The lower part of the breeches, I found, could be loosened just enough to make the knee area inhabitable.
We skipped breakfast and reached the station in a taxi without hitting anything. It was fifteen minutes before train time, but there wasn’t a vacant seat in the train. A few of the seats were occupied by poilus, and the rest by poilus’ parcels and
