The white contingent on the other ship proves to be from Camp Sherman. What is of far more importance, however, is the fact that both ships possess clean bills of health, only nine cases of sickness being reported altogether. This is good news, for influenza and pneumonia have been rampant. Troops on the great transports have been saddened of late by the continuous spectacle of eager young hearts committed to the deep without ever having beheld their Promised Land. There have been rumours, too, of hundreds of stretcher-cases landed in Liverpool from a single convoy. But apparently the plague is stayed. We shall have a chance now to be killed—which is a very different matter from dying like a common civilian.
In due course the gentleman from Fourteenth Street, Lebanon, Illinois, set foot upon the soil of France—to his own profound relief. His name was Joseph Williams. His calling, up to date, had been that of elevator attendant in the leading—in fact, the only—hotel in his native town. He had never been from home in his life, and when the long arm of the Selective Draft reached out from Washington, D.C., and pounced upon Joseph in Lebanon and dropped him into the maelstrom of Camp Dodge, it launched him upon a series of experiences so novel and so surprising that his eyes had never quite regained their sockets, nor had his mouth been completely closed, since. American negroes vary a good deal in tint, but there were no half-measures about Joseph. He was coal-black; and as his teeth and the whites of his eyes were china-white, he furnished a most effective colour-scheme. He was, moreover, a youth of cheerful countenance, and performed the most ordinary military duties with an air of rapturous enjoyment.
But the voyage across had been a severe trial. Joseph had never seen the ocean before, and his introduction to that element had not been auspicious. For fifteen long days the convoy had tumbled and lurched through the Atlantic wastes. The weather had been contrary; fogs numerous. The lame ducks of the party had been more than usually dilatory. Joseph and his brethren—possibly with some long-dormant ancestral chord of recollection astir within them—had been first scared, then demoralized, and finally had given up hope. After the first week they abandoned all expectation of ever seeing land again. Late one night the officer on duty, going his rounds amid the Chinese opium-den of close-packed bunks in the ship’s hold, overheard Joseph’s voice, uplifted above the creaking of timbers and the snores of his associates, imploring Providence for the sight of “jus’ one li’l’ lone pine-tree—no mo’ dan dat!”—as a divine guarantee that the deep waters of the Atlantic had not entirely submerged the habitable globe.
But now, Joseph had arrived. He was “right there.” The sun shone warmly upon him, and the good brown earth lay firm beneath his large feet—the soil of France, which he had come to save. His smile expanded: his soul burgeoned. He would explore this town, and fraternize with the inhabitants.
Leave obtained, he set forth. He observed with approval, as a member of a family which had derived its income for generations from the taking-in of other people’s washing, the elaborately starched and frilled caps of the Normandy fisherwomen. He returned with interest the shy smiles of little French girls in wooden sabots. When a bullet-headed little French boy in a long black pinafore stood to attention upon his approach and exclaimed, “Américain, Salu-u-u-ut!” Joseph Williams beamed from ear to ear.
Presently, emerging from the town, he made for the open country—a country of undulating sand-dunes, with here and there a windmill atop, feverishly churning. To these succeeded green fields, dotted with humble farms and homesteads. Joseph observed that all these buildings were of stone or brick, wood being doubtless unobtainable in this sterile country. The inhabitants were not numerous—able-bodied men were conspicuously absent—and every one within sight appeared to be working. In the nearest field a small boy was directing the movements of two placid horses by means of that peculiar agonized howl with which a Frenchman always conducts business of an urgent nature, whether he be reviling a political opponent or selling evening papers. Farther away an oldish man in French Territorial uniform was cutting hay, assisted by two strapping young women.
Even the very old and the very young were employed. And in this connection Joseph stumbled upon the ideal occupation for persons who possess those twin adjuncts of the philosopher—a contemplative mind and a dislike for work.
Hitherto the summit of his ambition had been to stand one day in glorious apparel upon the tessellated flooring of a great New York hotel, opposite the elevators, and nod his head in Jove-like fashion whenever he thought it desirable that another elevator should go up. But now another and more restful career presented itself to him.
Every French peasant possesses a cow or two—peradventure half a dozen. To feed these, pastureland is required. But no thrifty Frenchman would set aside valuable arable land for this purpose, when the roadside is free to all. A properly educated French cow can always be relied upon to extract a meal from the strip of dusty herbage that runs between the roadway and the ditch in every country lane in France. The trouble is that such a pasture is considerably longer than it is broad—three feet by Infinity is the dimension—and a cow of epicurean temperament may be inclined to wander too far, or even lose herself. Therefore, an escort must be provided—usually for each individual cow, for the collective convoy system is of little practical use here. So the Landsturm is called out. At early dawn Grandpère totters off up the road escorting, let us say, Rosalie; while Toinette, aged six, departs in the opposite direction, with the inevitable huge umbrella under one arm and Victorine’s leading-string under the other. Thus the day is spent. It is a day without haste, without heat; for the pace is that of a browsing cow. Moreover, it is a day without supervision—grateful and comforting to an enlisted man of six months’ standing—and its responsibilities are limited to steering the cow out of the way of approaching traffic, either by personal appeal from the shade of a neighbouring tree, or in extreme cases with the umbrella. It is not necessary to observe a course or take bearings: you may simply drift, because the cow always knows the way home. Decidedly, said Joseph Williams to himself, this was the life. Elevator-starting was a sociable and decorative calling, but made too severe a demand upon the faculties. After the war he would settle right here in France and chaperon a cow.