“Were you here during the fighting?”
“Yes, monsieur, and during the shelling and the burning. The shelling was not enough. The Germans said that some one fired on their soldiers—a boy, I believe—so they set fire to the houses. One could only look and hate and pray as their soldiers passed through, looking so unconquerable, making all seem so terrible for France. Was it to be ’70 over again? One’s heart was of stone, monsieur. Tiens! They came back faster than they went. A mitrailleuse was down there at the end of the street, our mitrailleuse! The bullets went cracking by. They crack, the bullets; they do not whistle like the stories say. Then the street was empty of Germans who could run. The dead they could not run, nor the wounded. Then the French came up the street, running, too—running after the Germans. It was good, monsieur, good, good! My heart was not of stone then, monsieur. It could not beat fast enough for happiness. It was the heart of a girl. I remember it all very clearly. I always shall, monsieur.”
“Allons!” said our statesman. “The officer is well cared for.”
The world seemed normal again as we passed through other towns unharmed and swept by the dark countryside, till a red light rose in our path and a sharp “Qui vive?” came out of the night as we slowed down. This was not the only sentry call from a French Territorial in front of a barricade.
At a second halt we found a chain as well as a barricade across the road. For a moment it seemed that even the suave parliamentarism of our statesman or the authority of our general and our passes could not convince one grizzled reservist, doing his duty for France at the rear while the young men were at the front, that we had any right to be going into Paris at that hour of the night. The password, which was “Paris,” helped, and we felt it a most appropriate password as we came to the broad streets of the city that was safe.
There is a popular idea that Napoleon was a super-genius who won all his battles alone. It is wrong. He had a lot of Frenchmen along to help. Much the same kind of Frenchmen live to-day. Not until they fought again would the world believe this. It seems that the excitable Gaul, whom some people thought would become demoralised in face of German organisation, merely talks with his hands. In a great crisis he is cool, as he always was. I like the French for their democracy and humanity. I like them, too, for leaving their war to France and Marianne; for not dragging in God as do the Germans. For it is just possible that God is not in the fight. We don’t know that He even approved of the war.
VI
AND CALAIS WAITS
Calais, the objective of a struggle for world power—Last reserves of the British—A city of refugees—Heroic care of the wounded—“Life going on as usual”—The cheerful Belgians—In a French hospital—An astonished but happy Tommy.