One rainy afternoon the old lady made bread, and as I had never seen bread made in France, I was very interested in the process. It was a different one than that employed in country houses at home. The old lady mixed the dough in a large trough-like affair that resembled a half-barrel that had been cut horizontally on a wood-horse. Into this was poured a great quantity of flour and water which the capable arms of “mamma Katzenjammer” worked quickly into dough. When it was kneaded sufficiently, an iron door was opened in a large brick oven, and from it a few embers were quickly drawn. This part of the process surprised me very much as I did not know that a wood fire had actually been made in the oven. Then the old lady took a long-handled flat wooden shovel that stood near the kneaded dough, which had not been set to rise, but had been placed on paper in flat wicker baskets. She picked up each basket and upset the dough on the shovel; each basket contained just enough dough to cover the shovel and still be about two inches in thickness. The shovel was pushed far into the oven and then with a quick jerk by the experienced hands of old Madame, was drawn out empty. When all the dough in the baskets had been put in the oven the door was closed and, if I remember rightly, it was two hours before the oven was opened again. It was George who came to tell me that Madame was going to open the oven. I went out just in time to see the old lady pull to the front of the oven, by means of a long-handled hook, the great flat loaves of dark-brown bread: there were fifteen loaves in all, about one foot and a half in diameter and two inches deep. It was very good bread, as I discovered when I tasted some the following day.
Before the following Sunday orders came to march. First we went to Berneville, and on Saturday, after I had arranged for church service for Sunday, we were moved to Lattre-St. Quentin. The other battalions were quartered in the same area. It was late Saturday night when I finished organizing for Sunday; but the services were not to be. More marching orders came. We were to leave in the morning at five o’clock for Avesnes-le-Compte, where we were to entrain, destination not given. The hour had struck; big things were before us.
Chapter LXXVII
A New Front
It was half-past three Sunday morning when I awoke. I dressed quickly, went down to the little church and said Mass. When I left the church the road was filled with soldiers moving in different directions, carrying mess tins of steaming porridge, across the top of which was placed some bread and butter with a strip of fried bacon; in the other hand was the cover of the mess tin filled with hot tea. They were all joking and in excellent spirits; yet before the following Sunday—
We entrained between eight and nine o’clock and all day long there was great speculation as to our destination. Some thought that the division was returning to the Ypres salient; others guessed that we were on our way up to the North Sea coast. Later in the day it was rumored that we were going to Etaples, where there was to be more drilling. For awhile it seemed that we were returning to the area about Etaples. But towards evening we knew the truth; we were coming into the area on the Somme.
It was late in the evening when we detrained, and to this day I do not know the name of the place. We took supper and then began to march. We crossed the Somme River and then in the darkness went through what seemed to be a very pretty country, one more wooded than I had yet seen in France. And as we went on and on under ancient wide-spreading trees, I began to wish it had been daylight, for surely it must have been some famous forest of France.
There had either been some confusion of orders or else our guides did not know the way, for we spent the whole night marching over dark roads, through quiet villages and dense forests. One little scene stands out in my memory quite vividly. We had been marching for a long time when the order came ringing through the darkness: “Fall out!” The men fell out and immediately began to sit around on the damp earth; a fine mist of rain had been falling for some time. Permission was given to smoke, and presently hundreds of tiny red circles glowed in the darkness of the forest.
“Where are we now?” some one asked. Of course he was bombarded with replies, but none of them proved correct; indeed, many went very wide of the mark as they meant to do, for they were names of Canadian towns or countries.
Presently I noticed the white circle of light from a flash-lamp move over a field map spread out on the ground, and in the relative silence that had now ensued I listened intently, as the low murmur of the voices of the officers regarding the map came to my ears. They mentioned the name of some place but I did not catch it; then one officer spoke louder, so that I heard quite distinctly: “It’s Picardy we are now in, Picardy.”
He stopped speaking, and from the opposite side of the glade came the sound of a murmured conversation. It ceased, and in the silence a wonderful clear voice began to sing softly, yet not so low but that all could hear, the song “Roses are Blooming in Picardy.” I had never heard the song before. It seemed fitting for that young soldier to be singing there in the damp forest while his companions listened and joined in the chorus. I suppose for many of those brave young lads who sang the words had a special significance.