It is pretty sport. A little white machine, sometimes catching the glint of the sun, dashes towards us at a great height. It is sighted, and then the high-pitched boom-booms of the contre-avions start in, and the shrapnel breaks at varying distances around the machine like powder-puffs, which float along for some minutes. After a little of this harmless sport the Boche gets out of range, the guns cease, and the machine, having in the meanwhile disposed of some bombs or taken some photographs, dashes off, to be followed shortly by one or two Frenchmen.
The practical value of the anti-aircraft guns is to keep the machines so high in the air that they can accomplish little, as the guns rarely score. At M——, where every day they have been shooting two or three hundred rounds at the machines which fly over the city, they are quite proud of their record, for once in one day they shot down three machines—two of their own and one German. They have been resting on their laurels ever since. It was a few examples like this which taught the French airmen to keep out of the sky while the contre-avions were busy.
“NAPOLEON” was so christened by us because, despite his sparrow-like form and manner, he considers himself the moving spirit of the army in general and of our section in particular. Because he knows nothing about automobiles, he styles himself an expert,—the mere fact that he is assigned as clerk to an ambulance section proves his claim. The one time he had the indiscretion to touch a car, he drove the lieutenant’s around the compound with the emergency brake set—after telling the sous-chef that he had driven cars for twenty years! One of the ambulances goes for ravitaillement every day, carrying “Napoleon,” who disappears into mysterious buildings and returns with still more mysterious edibles, presumably for our delectation.
On one trip the carburetor gave trouble and we stopped and cleaned it. While we were working we noticed “Napoleon” industriously turning the lights on and off, pumping the button on the dash. We said nothing, and when we had finished and started the car again he tapped his chest proudly, cocked his head, and said, “Moi!”
In circumnavigating a large team in the centre of the road later that day I rubbed “Napoleon” off against a horse, and after that he snubbed me on every occasion.
BEING at the cross-roads, all manner of men and things come through Erize. The never-ending stream of camions passing each other as they go, layers deep with dust and grime, winds on steadily. There is great rivalry between the camion pelotons, and each has adopted an insignia painted on the sides of the cars to distinguish it from the others. As there are several hundred pelotons the designs are many, interesting, and reveal much of the inner nature of the poilu. Every species of beast and fowl is depicted,—greyhound, stork, swallow, and other types,—as a monkey riding on a shell, a demon with trident pursuing a German, and then perhaps a child’s face, copied no doubt from the locket of one of the men.
Soldiers go up cheering wildly, singing and shouting. They return silent, tired, covered with mud, and reduced in numbers. German rifles, bayonets, caps, buttons, cartridges, and other odds and ends are then offered for sale. In August a poilu offered me a German rifle. I was examining it, and admiring the design, when I noticed the maker’s name,—the latest type German rifle had been made in New Jersey, U.S.A.
In addition to these things, the poilus have for sale many articles they have made themselves. The favorite is the briquet, or pocket lighter. This is made in all conceivable sizes and shapes, and operates by a flint and steel lighting a gasoline wick. This is why we use more gasoline en repos than when rolling! The soldiers also take the soixante-quinze shell-cases and carve and hammer them into vases. As many of the men were experts at work of this type “avant la guerre,” and as much local talent has appeared since, some of the specimens are very fine indeed, and command high prices in the cities.