Slush, slog! Slush, slog! went the heavy hobnailed shoes slithering through the mud and water of the roads. Mile after mile, hour after hour. At the end of each weary hour a short rest, an easing of the shoulders from the cutting pack straps. Ten minutes only did they rest. Then down the long columns rang the sharp commands, “Fall in. Fall in! ... Com-pan-ee ... Atten-shun! Forward, March!” A few minutes in cadenced marching and then the command, “Rout step–March!” Again the confident, boisterous giant took up its song:
“Good-bye Ma, good-bye Pa,
Good-bye mule with your old he-haw.
I may not know what the war’s about
But I bet by Gosh I soon find out!
O, my sweetheart, don’t you fear,
I’ll bring you a king for a souvenir.
I’ll bring you a Turk, and the Kaiser too,
And that’s about all one feller can do.”
111Marching, singing, jesting, they pressed on until their advance guard met the plodding, cheerless, downcast refugees. The French peasants halted in their tracks, staring, unable to believe their eyes. Here, in the flesh, by thousands upon thousands, was the answer to their prayers. Perhaps it was not too late, after all. Here was new strength, new courage.
Old men danced with joy, embracing their wives and children, embracing one another, and tears of joy coursed down their wan, lined faces.
“Les Americains!” they shouted. “Vive l’ Amerique! Nous sauveurs sont arrivee!” (The Americans! Long live America! Our saviors have arrived.)
The cry spread; it ran up and down the roads and bypaths; it became a magic sentence restoring courage throughout all France.
As for the resolute Americans, they merely plodded on, questioning one another as to what all the shouting was about. Oh, so that was it? Sure they were here, but why get excited about it? ... The Boche is breaking through, eh? As you were, Papa, and keep your shirt on! And as for that old lady over there by that cart, crying so softly–say! somebody who can parley this language go over there and tell that old lady not to cry any more. Tell her we’ll fix it up, toot sweet. O-o-o! La, la! Pipe the pretty mademoiselle over there driving that dogcart. Ain’t she the pippin though! Say–
112“Fall in! Fall in!... Com-pan-ee, At-ten-shun! Forward, March!”
“Mademoiselle from Armentieres,
Parlez vous.
Mademoiselle from Armentieres...”
A new giant was going in, a giant that did not yet know its own strength, a somewhat clownish giant, singing as it came.