The uncertainties and possibilities of the situation distract the soldier’s mind from his real, staring troubles. His thoughts are directed into pleasant channels. The lady sends him little comforts, extra food, or money and, maybe, invites him to spend his furlough at her residence. She always does, if he is from invaded territory. If they prove congenial, friendship sometimes ripens into love and love into marriage. It relieves the lonesome isolation of the soldier, and gives the woman a direct, personal interest in the war.
In the spring of 1916 I stood at the Spouters’ Corner in Hyde Park, London, where Free Speech England allows its undesirables to express themselves. Here the authorities classify, label and wisely permit each particular crank or freak to here blow off surplus gas. If suppressed, it might explode or fester and become a menace.
In French uniform I was listening to the quips of a woman lecturer who really was a treat. “Yes,” she cried out, “Mr. Asquith has asked us poor people to economize. Instead of spending three shillings a day, we must only spend two; and our average wage is but a bob and a half. The high cost of living is nothing to the cost of high living. When Mr. Asquith pushes that smooth, bald head of his up through the Golden Gates, St. Peter will think it is a bladder of lard, and lard is worth two shillings per pound. So he will ‘wait and see’ if he can use it at the price.” (English call Asquith Mr. “Wait and See.”) “Yes,” she continued, “I try to be careful to make things last as long as possible. Instead of buying a new petticoat, I now change the one I have wrong side out and make it last twice as long.”
I was absorbing these subleties when a French lady, dressed in velvet and furs, noticing my faded blue uniform, stepped up, excused herself, and asked if I were not a French soldier, and would I have a cup of tea with her?
Thus, I found my god-mother.
One year later, again on furlough, passing through London, I called on my good friend and was invited to accompany her to church. After a long prayer, so long as to excite my curiosity, she whispered: “I used to come here every Sunday and pray for you. In this seat, at this part of the ceremony, I prayed you would come back again. I wanted you here with me today so I could show you to God. Now I am content. He will take care of you.”
Opening her prayer-book, she took out a piece of paper and pressed it into my hand. It was an extract from a London newspaper, which told of my being decorated by the French Government. I had not told her, and was not aware the news had been in the London papers. At the house, later, Captain Underwood, one of Rawlinson’s invalided veterans, who was in the retreat from Antwerp, inquired: “Did our friend show you the paper?”
“Yes.”
“Well, she bought that newspaper one night and came here crying out, ‘See what my poilu has done, and he never said a word to me about it!’ When you blew in, she made us promise we would not mention it till after you came back from church.”