It was a dramatic moment. Sergeant Bouligny came out from the darkness, and a spirited argument occurred between him and the officer. The American sergeant then came over to Dubois and said: “It’s a damned shame. They held that five years (suspended sentence for sleeping, when lost by a patrol in ‘No-Man’s-Land’) over you. Now, man to man, I want you to promise me you will go right back to your company. I told them you would. I stood good for you. The colonel must sign that furlough. He is not here and we can’t do a thing to help you.” It was sad. The poor fellow was crushed. We walked away, leaving him in the darkness with his bitter thoughts.
We arrived at Thill near midnight and were depositing our equipment at the guardhouse when a guard came and said to me: “The sentinel wishes to see you.” I went out and there was old Tex Bondt! “Yes,” he said, “I am sentinel tonight. Last night I was in prison. This is it, the prisoners are out working. I drew eight days for trying to be reasonable. Reason is all right in its place, but not in the army. They nearly worked me to death. We were carrying timbers to the front line to make dugouts—three men to a stick. I was in the middle and I am six foot three!”
Next morning Bouligny and I tried to find some breakfast. The town was deserted, badly shot-up. Stores were empty, civilians gone. Prospects looked bad, when a gunny-sack was drawn back from a doorway, and a voice yelled out, in English: “Here, where in the devil are you fellows going? Come up and have a cup of coffee.” It was Tony Pollet, of Corona, New York.[[D]]
[D]. In October, 1917, dressed in the French uniform, I was walking up the street near the Grand Central Station, New York. A civilian accosted me in French. We conversed in that language for some time. He worked the third degree, asked about Battalion D, and mentioned several names of men I knew. I turned on him and said, “You must have known Tony Pollet.” The civilian stopped short, finally found his voice, and gasped out, “Pollet?—that’s me!”
In the early morning we walked fifteen kilometers to the railroad and waited for the other Americans to arrive. Capdeville found some grease. Sweeney went to a French camp and talked some potatoes from them. So we ate “French fried,” with wine, till the train started for Paris.
Dr. Van Vorst was ranking officer, but Morlae and Sweeney sparred for ground. Said Morlae to Delpeshe: “You do that again and I will turn you over to the gendarmes.” Delpesche replied: “Who in hell are you? I am taking no orders from you. I belong to Sergeant Sweeney’s section!”
Soubiron had the time of his life. He rode down on the foot-board of the coach. He was determined not to miss the green fields, the lovely flowers and the smiles of the girls, as they wished the Americans “Bon Voyage.” Everything was beautiful after the drab and dirt of the front.
On the platform at Paris the two sergeants were still disputing. A petite Parisienne stepped up to Sweeney, saying: “Pardon, Monsieur, you came from near Rheims; did you see anyone from the 97th Regiment on the train?” The 97th had been badly cut up. Sweeney remembered that. In an instant his face changed. He smiled back at the girl and answered: “No, there were no French permissionaires; only Americans were on the train.”