Surgeon In Arms — Ch 19 Leave; Ch 20 Paris During The War

CHAPTER XIX LEAVE

Leave is the be-all and end-all of anyone who has been at the front for any great time.

It is supposed to come every three months.

It never does, but you know that if you stay long enough it will come, for Army Headquarters, Corps H. Q.

, Divisional H. Q.

and finally Brigade H. Q.

(I don't dare mention Battalion H. Q.!

) "may use all of the leave some of the time, and some of the leave all of the time, but they cannot go on using all of the leave all of the time," to paraphrase Mr. P.

T.

Barnum in regard to fooling the people.

So all you must do is to possess your soul in patience, avoid getting directly in front of a shell or bullet, and some day in the dim and distant future leave will come for you to expose yourself once again to the temptations of the World, the Flesh and the Devil in London; that is, if any of them remain when the Bishop of London, the Food Controller, the Anti-Treating Laws, and the Provost Marshal have done their work.

One day a fellow officer (in this connection I nearly said sufferer) informs you that his batman was told by the O. C.'

s batman that he had heard that the Brigadier General was taking leave the end of the month.

After that you go on hearing by devious routes that the Brigade Majors, Captains, and Lieutenants are going soon, and suddenly you realize that shortly your own Battalion Headquarters will find leave filtering through on them.

And perchance, toward the end of the list, you know you come somewhere.

It is then you look up your bank account, if you happen to have any, and you take no extra chances either with shells or superstitions, for soldiers are almost as superstitious as sailors.

You could barely find in the British Armies ten men who would light three cigarettes with one match, and that despite the fact that the match ration is sometimes as absent as the rum ration.

We none of us are superstitious, but we adhere to the same platform as did a very charming Canterbury lady.

Her two sons, as fine chaps as England produces, were at the front, and as she and I, walking down St. George's Place, came to a ladder leaning against the wall of a building, she carefully walked round the other side of it, saying: "You know, Doctor, I am not the faintest bit superstitious, but I am not taking any chances these days."

And that is the position of the Army in the field.

They are not taking any chances.

Your leave comes one day after many months beyond the three required of you.

You start to a railhead where you put up for a night at an Officers' Club and mingle with the other happy beings who are leaving for the same purpose on the nine-mile-per-hour French train in the morning.

As you sit about after a dinner that makes your ration meals for the past six months look literally like "thirty cents," you light a cigarette, cock up your heels, and look at the world through a beaming face, made ruddy by an extra portion of the grape juice of France, and wearing a smile that won't come off.

"You going on leave, too?"

you ask genially of your neighbor, a young officer of that Suicide Club, the Royal Flying Corps.

He is about twenty-one, and you feel old enough to almost patronize him.

But before you do it you glance carefully at his left breast to see if it is, or is not, covered with D. S.

O.

, M.

C.

, and perhaps, V. C.

, ribbons.

To your relief you find it isn't. However, on second thought, you decide you will keep your patronizing for the Army Service Corps and not for these smiling, gay, life-risking, dare-devil boys about you.

"Y-yes in a w-w-way," the young chap answers with a charming boyish smile, "sick leave.

My old b-bus hit the earth s-s-suddenly, and I'm g-going for a rest.

I d-d-didn't always talk l-l-like this."

And in an engaging way he stammers out an invitation for you to take a Crême de Menthe with him.

Of course, courtesy compels you, much against your desire, to accept.

He has with him two others of the R. F.

C.

, all young like himself, and for a couple of hours you listen to their modest tales of their really wonderful exploits, undreamed of except by the far-seeing few twenty-five years ago.

One of the others has a scraped nose, blackened eye and swollen lip, which he says he received when his "waggon," in landing, struck a rough bit of ground which, "he tried to plow up and he must have hit the bally gravel underneath."

"W-were you t-t-tight?"

asks the first with that boyish smile.

"Certainly not," indignantly replied the other, and he laughed.

"Of course, I had had a couple in the morning, but I had a sleep afterwards, and anyway, the O. C.

smelt my breath, and he wouldn't have allowed me up if he had smelt anything."

And you listen with fascination to their comparisons of their machines and their methods of diving; and "stalling," in which they drive up against the wind in such a way that they can keep stationary in relation to a certain bit of earth; and "corkscrewing," or nose-diving, towards the earth with a circular turning of the whole aeroplane, out of the midst of enemies, and righting the machine thousands of feet lower down out of danger.

You become quite an expert as you listen.

They tell you that earlier in the war the German aviators were very chivalrous foes, returning courtesy for courtesy, never shooting a fallen enemy, and dropping notes as to the fate of some of our missing airmen.

On one occasion the great German aviator, Immelman, who remained chivalrous till his death, dropped a box of cigars on the aerodrome of a great British pilot, "with the compliments of the German Air Service."

The following night the Briton returned the compliment in the same manner.

But now the Germans in the air, as on the sea and on land, are much less sportsmanlike and take mean advantages of a fallen foe.

You listen to stories of the great exploits of Baron Richtofen's "circus," and still greater of the "circus" of our own Captain Ball--unhappily since killed--who at times went up in his pyjamas.

He had a trick of shooting straight up through the roof of his plane at an enemy overhead and, fearing that the enemy might some day try the same trick on him, he had a machine gun so placed that he could also shoot through the floor directly downwards.

Oh, what entrancing, picturesque stories, beyond the wildest dreams of imagination two generations ago!

"I always take up with me a goodly supply of cigarettes in case I have to land where I can't get any.

Do you?"

asks one.

"N-no, I d-d-don't. That's looking for t-t-trouble.

I order b-b-breakfast of p-porridge and cream and b-b-bacon and eggs," smiles our young stammering friend.

"And then it's all ready when I c-c-come in."

You listen for hours to these gallant boys who have all the fine natural courtesy and modesty of the well-bred English, and the gayety of a Charles O'Malley.

Unconsciously they make you feel that you really have seen such a prosaic side of the war in comparison with them.

Then, like all good Britons, they for some time curse the Government, and you aid and abet them.

The night wears on, the liqueur bottle runs low, and at last you must say good-night to these rollicking boys who insist that you must not fail when you come back to visit their mess, "for you C-C-Canadians, you know, are such d-damned fine chaps, and we l-love to meet you."

The little sin of flattery is so easily forgiven when it is accompanied by that frank, fascinating smile, and when you have all been tasting a drop of good French liqueur.

You wend your way up creaky old stairs to No. 13, or is it 31, and, luxury of luxuries, you find a tub of hot water--or it was hot at the hour for which you ordered it--awaiting you.

Divesting yourself of your clothes you double your body this way and that in a vain endeavor to dip more than half of yourself at once.

At last you feel clean, and you struggle into pyjamas, and crawl into bed between real, white, clean linen sheets for the first time in six months, and you sleep as no emperor can sleep on the most silken of divans, while you dream of the morrow when you really begin your leave.

Leave!

Ah, we were speaking of leave!

Well, let us, you and I, take it together.

Let us enjoy to the full the flesh-pots of London.

For our leave lasts only ten days, and the war must go on till we have shown the Hun that he cannot autocratically put his Prussian militaristic crown of thorns on the fair brow of Civilization.

CHAPTER XX PARIS DURING THE WAR

Paris, that queen of cities, has been an interesting study to all who have paid her a visit at any time, but particularly interesting is that study since the war began.

Previous to the war I had the good fortune to visit this city on a number of occasions, my last visit having been but a few months before the beginning of this great militaristic conflagration which is still sweeping over the civilized world.

At that time I had just returned from a "grand tour," taking in Italy, Austria, and Southern Germany, where no signs were discernible on the horizon of the stupendous attempt at world domination which the Prussian junkers were to engineer within four months' time.

Paris at that time was enjoying bright and balmy spring weather; the boulevards were crowded with visiting tourists, the Champs-Elysées with gay and merry crowds, and the Bois de Boulogne with riders and motorists in its wooded avenues, and rowers and paddlers on its lakes.

It remained in my memory a picture of beauty, peace, gayety, and prosperity.

My return to it came within the year, at the beginning of 1915, when the war cloud that hung over the whole of Europe particularly dimmed the sun of Paris.

I came into it in the afternoon from the north, and my first view of it showed that beautiful edifice, the Church of the Sacre Coeur, on the hill of Montmartre standing out _en silhouette_, "just as if cut from paper," as a traveling companion remarked.

Since the war began, on one's arrival at his hotel in Paris he has to give many particulars of himself not required in peace times.

The following morning he must call at the nearest police station and obtain, after many more questions as to nationality, occupation, and reasons for being there, a _permis de séjour_--permit to remain--good for a certain length of time, at the expiration of which the permit must be renewed.

On stepping out of my hotel the following morning to go to the police station, the first thing that struck my attention was the large number of women in mourning, though it was then only a matter of months since the beginning of hostilities.

The thought that flitted sadly through my mind was that one-half of the women of Paris are in mourning now, and ere long the other half will be.

It must not be forgotten that the French wear mourning for relations much more distant than those for whom we wear it; but even at that the war must not have gone on many months before a very large percentage of the French homes had been touched by the deaths of those near and dear to them.

For the soil of France was under the heel of the foreign invader, and there are no people in the world who love their mother country with a deeper devotion than the French.

A very old woman, living away up in the north of France in a town that was shelled by the Germans almost daily showed me her love for la belle France and her hatred of its enemies in one expressive sentence.

I

had asked her if she did not tire of the continuous pounding of the guns.

"No, I love them, I love them," she answered passionately, "for when they cease it means that the accursed boche is being left alone; but when they roar, roar, roar, it means that we are driving him out of our beautiful France."

Her face showed, as an old woman's wrinkled face can show so well, her hatred of the Germans.

The soldiers of France by their traditional gallantry, their superb courage and their patience, have not only shown their love for their country, but have been an example of noble heroism to us all.

One of the next notable changes on the streets of Paris was the fact that one saw no young men in civilian clothes.

All were serving their country in some capacity in the armies.

The little hotel in the Rue Bergere at which I was a guest, a hotel of not many more than one hundred rooms, had given thirty men--waiters, porters, clerks--to the armies of France, for it was one of those small, select hotels that one finds scattered throughout Europe.

The only male help that remained of its original staff was the concierge, and he was a Dutchman from Amsterdam.

The manager, accountant, and all the other help were women.

No meals were served except a French déjeuner--so hateful to hungry Anglo-Saxons--of bread, and tea, coffee, or cocoa.

And the same condition was noticeable all over the city.

Anyone who has visited this fair metropolis of France in peace times will remember the delicious, snow-white bread that is served with the meals, that French bread with the crackly brown crust as delicious as pastry.

The first day of my stay I noticed that this bread was served no longer.

In its place we were given some of a much inferior quality and not nearly so white.

When this had occurred in many different restaurants and cafés, I asked the reason.

"_Mais, monsieur_," was the reply, accompanied by that Gallic gesture of helplessness, the turning upward of the palms, "the good bakers are all serving with the armies."

Of course, this reason was enhanced by the conservation of the wheat which prevented the mixing or blending of the superior qualities of grains to produce the high-grade flours used by the good bakers.

The streets by day were the same crowded thoroughfares as of old, except for the black of those in mourning, the blue-gray of the military uniforms, and the military cars and Red Cross ambulances.

The touts who in peace times had tried to inveigle the tourist into moving picture houses in which the films had _not_ been passed by the censor; or who offered to take him around the forbidden night-sights for a small honorarium; or who endeavored to sell him postcards so indecent that the ordinary man would not accept a fortune and have them found on his corpse; all these fellows still plied their trade.

They were not quite so obtrusive or so numerous as usual, but it was difficult to cross the Place de l'Opéra without having one of them step up behind you and whisper his enterprise, whatever it was.

The girls of the boulevards were perhaps even more in evidence than at other times, for in those early months of the war few chose to cross the submarine-infested channel, and still fewer to cross the Atlantic through the areas laid out by the Huns as danger zones, unless good cause made them do so.

Paris, usually the Mecca of tourists from all the countries of the world, had become instead the business and military headquarters of France.

And to Paris came, instead of the gay youth bent on pleasure, the gray youth bent on business, whose eyes were so busy studying his engagement book, or reading the market reports, that they had not time to meet the roaming glances of the girls of the boulevards.

New friends were hard to find, for _les riches Américains_ came no more except on business, and the old friends in the persons of gay Pierre or gallant Paul were serving in the trenches--perhaps dead, for news of them came but seldom.

So the girls had plenty of time to promenade and one found it necessary to keep his eyes fixed steadily on some imaginary object straight in front, as he walked down the Boulevard des Italiens or the Boulevard des Capucines, to avoid receiving too many inquiring glances from the boulevardières.

Generally speaking the annoyances were limited to glances, as the rules of the city are strict.

One noticeable thing about these women was the fact that many of them wore black, probably for two reasons--on the one hand, war economy, and on the other, to attract sympathy for real or supposed losses at the front.

Those who were not in black went with the prevailing styles which seemed to be governed also by war economy, for less and less materials were being used in the dresses: the waists were getting lower, and the skirts higher.

One would imagine that if this kept on till they met, some kind of catastrophe would be likely to happen, even though it were Paris!

At that famous corner of the Café de la Paix the chairs on the street were well patronized, though the weather was chilly; and I found myself wondering if it were the same crowd who had occupied them a few months before on my last visit.

No one ever passes here without taking a seat, unless he is pressed for time.

Someone has said that if you sit here long enough you will see everybody in the world who is anybody in the world pass by.

I took a seat and a cup of coffee and glanced about me.

It was the usual mixed crowd, with, perhaps, fewer of those who chase Bacchus and Venus, and more of those who pursue Mammon.

But, after all, men and women are much the same the world over, and this was much the same group of coffee-sipping, liqueur-tasting people that one finds in the cafés from 4 to 6 p. m.

in any of the continental cities from Paris to Vienna, from Naples to Berlin.

There were a few more men in uniform, a little less gayety than usual, a trifle more business talked in one's hearing.

Otherwise, it was the same group.

A couple of tables from me was a handsome officer in a French uniform, but plainly, from his cast of features and his mannerisms, not a Frenchman.

He wore the ribbon of the Legion of Honor on his tunic, and he was, perhaps for this reason, saluted by many of the officers who passed on the boulevard.

Many glances of admiration were thrown in his direction by civilians.

Some of the officers stopped for a moment and chatted with him.

I watched him for some time, my curiosity increasing.

He was sitting alone at the moment when I got up to leave, and I made the excuse of asking him something about British hospitals.

Apparently glad to hear his own tongue spoken he welcomed me, and we exchanged confidences for a few minutes, as strangers sometimes will when there is something in common between them.

He was an Australian who had been in France when the war broke out, and he had not agreed with England's hesitation in entering the war by the side of Belgium and France; so he joined the French army.

"Oh, yes, that is the Legion of Honor," he returned smilingly to my remark as to his decoration.

"A very ordinary bit of work at the front brought it to me," he continued modestly, apparently not caring to give details.

Though I was in Paris some time, I did not come across him again, nor have I ever met since this Australian lover of freedom.

At that time the women of France were already doing much of the work usually performed by men.

This was long before London had reached the stage that she has attained today, with women filling such a wide variety of occupations, so that it was very noticeable in France at that time.

At the border my goods had been looked over by women customs inspectors; women guards in the train had examined my ticket; and in Paris women were everywhere, handling the motor buses, conducting on the tramways, collecting fares on the Metropolitan, or Underground, and filling the hundred and one other positions that, since the war, woman has proved herself so capable of filling.

All the women of the world have proved themselves heroines in this war, but none more than the women of France.

At the early stage of the war of which I am writing, they showed those characteristics of patience, loyalty, and nobility of mind which have distinguished them in the straining times that have come and gone since then.

They seemed to have become resigned to all things.

If one spoke to them petulantly of the raw, cold weather: "Ah, well," they returned, smiling, "it is the season, and one must expect bad weather."

Or you may, perchance, have known some woman whose son or brother was serving in the lines.

At that time the French Government gave out but little information as to any of the happenings at the front, and unless the government knew positively that a man was killed, no word of news was sent to the anxious friends.

Often many weary months of waiting passed without knowledge on the part of the soldier's nearest of kin as to his fate.

And if during this time of waiting you asked this woman whom you knew for tidings of her loved one, her reply invariably was: "No, no. I have had no news of _mon cher_ Jacques for a long time now.

But I do not fear," she would continue with a patient smile, "for the good God will protect him, I am sure.

And if it is necessary, we must give all for our beloved France."

And it may have been many more long, long months, and it may have been never, that she learned the real fate of her "cher Jacques."

One morning during this visit, as I entered a car on the subway, a living picture of sorrow passed in ahead of me.

The picture was made up of a beautiful young widow, leading tenderly by the hands her two lovely children, now fatherless.

Her deep brown eyes looking sadly out from her pale face saw no one.

Those eyes were looking into the far-off distance of the blank and lonely years to come, those years without hope "for the touch of a vanished hand, or the sound of a voice that is still."

All that saved her from black despair was the knowledge that she had to bear up because of the helpless children at her side.

But, God!

The pity of the thousands of these lonely widows!

What a contribution France and her allies are making to the cause of liberty!

CHAPTER XXI