“I guess you won’t be sorry, sir. You have worked hard.”
“Yes, pretty hard—right along. We of the Medical Department and of the Red Cross got into it before our fighters did. But the time has come now.”
“I’d like to see some of our boys get busy in a big way. I wish I could have joined the army.”
“Your work is fully as important—and daring—and useful. And, remember this, it is far more humane. You’ve no right to feel dissatisfied.”
“I’m not, Major—not a bit of it. You may count on me! Are there any more blessés to go down now?”
The Americans had begun to take part in the fighting. They had begun to do things in a small way, but this seemed to cause very little stir in France, except among those who had knowledge of the sterling character of the boys from the United States. The French commonly knew nothing actually. They saw nothing to make them think they were any more than a staunch-looking lot of fellows, many of whom needed a lot of drilling in modern warfare before they could hope to turn the tide of battle. There had been little evidence, so far, of this aid materializing, and even the most optimistic poilus had begun to doubt and to question. They had become a trifle fed up on American promises and they now wondered if the Yanks really meant to fight in a large way, or had come over only to skirmish and to bolster up the courage of the Allies by remaining in reserve.
True, the Americans had done a little commendable fighting, aided by the British and the French. Brigaded with the “Tommies” they had taken some hard knocks above Amiens. Brigaded with the French they had helped hold the Germans around Montdidier, but what could they do on a large scale that would really count? Were they actually going to be a factor in war?
Well, these questions were to be answered shortly, but would the result allay all doubt in the minds of all the anxious ones? The Americans were arriving upon the field of battle in rapidly increasing numbers. They had come across three thousand miles of water in spite of the German submarines. Was it like those vigorous inhabitants of the greatest country on earth, to hold back now in the great contest?
Spring had arrived. It was past the middle of April. The grass was newly green. The fruit trees were coming into blossom and the foliage was beginning to bud. The birds were singing everywhere, even amidst the desolate scenes of battle. Except where the shells and shrapnel of the opposing armies had torn the ground and battered the forests, there was the peacefulness over all and beauty of the new life of the season. Even now not far back from the fighting front of the Allies, some daring tillers of the soil were making ready to plant their crops.
But alternating with the days of balmy stillness came the rains—days and days when the whole face of nature was like a vast mop, soaked to fullness, dripping and cold. And when it rained it did nothing but rain. It had become almost an icy drizzle on the twentieth and the soldiers in the trenches, those bivouacking in the open and the homeless refugees who had fled before the German advance, were correspondingly miserable. It was, as in the winter months, a time for greatcoats, dry footwear, if such were possible, and the making of fires wherever fuel was to be had.