Antwerp to Gallipoli - A Year of the War on Many Fronts--and Behind Them | Page 6

and you would have taken him for an
Englishman. A big canvas bag full of golf-clubs leaned against the wall
behind him, and he had been trying to play golf at one of the east-coast
seaside places in England. But one couldn't play in a time like this, and
the young man sighed and waved his hands rather desperately--one
couldn't settle down to anything. So he was going home. To fight ?--I
suggested. Possibly, he said--the army had refused him several years
ago--maybe they would take him now. Very politely, in his quiet
manner, he asked me down to tea. When he stood by the rail watching
the tawny French cliffs draw nearer, one noticed a certain weary droop
to his shoulders, in contrast to his well-tanned, rather athletic-looking,
face--born a little tired, perhaps, like the young nobleman in Bernstein's
"Whirlwind." His baggage was addressed to a Norman chateau.
On the other side was a pink-cheeked boy of seventeen, all French,
though he spoke English and divided his time between writing
post-cards to the boys he had been visiting in England and reading
General von Bernhardi. "The first chapter, 'The Right to Make War,'"
he said, "I understand that--yes! But the second chapter--'The Duty to
Make War'" --he laughed and shook his head.
"No--no--no!" He was the son of an insurance agent who was already at
the front, and, although under age, he hoped to enlist. We drew nearer
Dieppe--tall French houses leaning inward with tricolors in the
windows, a quay with the baggy red breeches of French soldiers
showing here and there--just such a scene as they paint on theatre
curtains at home. A smoky tug whistled uproariously, there was a patter
of wooden shoes as children clattered along the stone jetty, and from all
over the crowd that had come down to greet us came brave shouts of
"Eep-eep Hoorah! Eep-eep Hoorah!"
No news, or at least no reliable news. A lot of wounded had been
brought in, business was stopped, the great beach deserted; some
thought the Germans would be in Dieppe in a day or two. Our train was
supposed to start as soon as the boat arrived and reach Paris before ten

that night. It was after dark before we got away and another day before
we crawled into St. Lazare.
There was a wild rush for places as soon as the gates opened; one took
what one could, and nine of us, including three little children, were
glad enough to crowd into a third-class compartment. Two ladies, with
the three little children, were hurrying away from the battle that their
husbands .thought was going to be fought near Dieppe within a day or
two. From Paris they hoped to get to the south of France. Over and over
again the husbands said good-by, then the guards whistled for the last
time.
"Albaire!" ... and a boy of about six went to the door of the
compartment to receive his father's embrace. "Don't let the Germans get
you!" cried the father, with a great air of gayety, and kissed the boy
again and again. He returned to his corner, rubbed his fists into his eyes,
and the tears rolled out under them. Then the two little girls-- twins, it
seemed, about four years old, in little mushroom hats--took their turns,
and they put their fists into their eyes and cried, and then the two
mothers began to cry, and the men, dabbing their eyes and puffing
vigorously at their cigars, cried good-by over and over, and so at last
we moved out of the station.
The long train crept, stopped, backed, crept on again. Through the open
windows one caught glimpses of rows of poplar-trees and the
countryside lying cool and white in the moonlight. Then came stations
with sentries, stray soldiers hunting for a place to squeeze in, and now
and then empty troop-trains jolted by, smelling of horses. In the
confusion at Dieppe we had had no time to get anything to eat, and
several hours went by before, at a station lunchroom, already supposed
to be closed, I got part of a loaf of bread. One of the young mothers
brought out a bit of chocolate, the other a bottle of wine, and so we had
supper--a souper de luxe, as one of them laughed--all, by this time, old
friends.
Eleven o'clock--midnight--the gas, intended for a short journey, grew
dimmer and dimmer, presently flickered out. We were in darkness--all
the train was in darkness--we were alone in France, wrapped in war and
moonlight, half real beings who had been adventuring together, not for
hours, but for years. The dim figure on the left sighed, tried one
position and another uneasily, and suddenly said that if it would not

derange monsieur too much, she would