On the day we made the 48-kilometer march to the summit of Ballon d’Alsace and back, while the company was resting Dubois was striding up and down, knapsack on back, hands in pockets. I said: “What are you doing? Can’t you sit down and rest?”
“Oh,” he replied, “I was telling the lieutenant that instead of poking along with these short, fiddling steps, the men should march out like this,—like we do in America!” It is a fact that the French take the longest strides, and are the best marchers in the world!
CHAPTER VIII
JULY 4, 1915
Several American journalists, “May their tribe increase!” among them Mr. Grundy, of the New York Sun; Nabob Hedin, of the Brooklyn Eagle; Mr. Mower, of the Chicago Daily News; Mr. Roberts, of the Associated Press, and Wythe Williams, of the New York Times, presented a petition to the Minister of War for the Americans to celebrate Independence Day in Paris. It was granted. The good news made a bigger noise on the front than the heaviest bomb that ever fell. It did not seem possible,—too good to be true!
Previously, no one, French or foreigner, soldier or officer, had been allowed to leave his post. From then on, everyone received his regular furlough at stated intervals—more liberal as danger lessened. Now, each man is granted ten days every four months.
Evening of July 3d I was on guard in front of Fort Brimont, three kilometers from Rheims, when Dubois put his head around a corner and yelled, “Come on, we are going to Paris.” I paid no attention to him. I had not asked for a furlough, and, of course, did not expect any.
A few minutes later Dubois roared, “Come on, you fool, don’t you know enough to take a furlough when you can get one? All Americans can go to Paris.” When the corporal came around I asked to be relieved, went to the captain and was told we had forty-eight hours permission; to pack up at once and go.
We walked through the communication trenches to battalion headquarters among falling shells. These made Dubois stop and say: “Damn it, it would just be my luck to get killed now; I would not mind if I were coming back from Paris, but if the Boche get me now I shall not be able to rest in my grave.”
At the battalion headquarters we were lined up in the darkness. An officer with a flashlight read off the names. Each man stepped out and received his furlough as his name was called. The officer stopped reading, Dubois still stood in line. Then he stepped up, saluted, and asked for his furlough. There was none.