An American Crusader at Verdun

by Philip Sidney Rice

One night we went out on a wild boar hunt, skirting the edge of a thick forest, not far from Aillianville down in the direction of the ancient town of Grand. Midnight, our hunt being unsuccessful, we sat down on the ground in the moonlight and enjoyed the feast which we had brought with us. We did not have another opportunity to go boar hunting because of the rains, which caused Ned Townsend—or was it “Red” Day?—to complain that the ground was too wet to sit on.

But if we had been unsuccessful on our hunt, our patron M. Tourgant fared better, bringing one in a couple of days later and the following night we were invited to sit around the open fireplace while Madame Tourgant put slices of it to sizzling over the faggots on the open fireplace. She prepared other things for the supper too. Some French soldiers that we knew were with us and I am sure ’most any king would have relinquished his crown for a night, to have sat under those old blackened rafters and enjoyed the sport of ordinary mortals.

Sometimes in Aillianville we would drop into the little “Cheval Blanc Café” to write letters or sit up at the open log fireplace with Madame Julie and her husband the patron and while drying our feet which were usually wet, read the romances of Alexandre Dumas and the like; sometimes the butcher maidens from the neighboring town of Grand would come driving along with their butcher wagon and from them we would procure a slice of ham or bacon which Madame Julie would cook for us with an omelette. Sometimes in the early evening, we played dominoes in the “Cheval Blanc” for stakes which were not ruinous. In the early evening Madame Julie’s niece Marie might drop in to help her with the dishes.

Marie was a cripple girl, but she was none the less the queen of all Aillianville. Her father owned his own comfortable little home and was the possessor of more cows than anyone else in the town. Marie’s cheeks were bronzed from the sun while watching her father’s cows. Her teeth shone white when she smiled. She had a noble brow and a regal face. Given the opportunity of two or three years in a fashionable finishing school, provided she did not become too highly educated, Marie could have been transplanted to Madison Avenue or Rittenhouse Square and scored a decided hit. I have it from one who lives not far from Madison Avenue and confirmed by one who lives not far from Rittenhouse Square. Marie will probably marry a poilu returning from the war with one arm and a Croix de Guerre and live happily ever after in the peaceful town of Aillianville.

Sometimes sitting by the log fire in the “Cheval Blanc,” we would hear the clank of wooden sabots on the stone pavement outside, the door would open and old Jacques, the blacksmith of rugged voice and jet black beard, would bluster in for his bottle of wine.

We lived with the peasants and loved them. They were kind, polite, chivalrous—they were real.

On occasion, there was music in the evening in the “Lion d’Or Café” further down the street. One night, toward the end of October, we held a dance in the “Lion d’Or.” A guitar and a mandolin furnished the music. The villagers came around in their wooden sabots. French soldiers in their blue uniforms were there. Back in the shadow of a corner, a group of officers sat enjoying the scene, no doubt wishing they might take an active part. In the course of the evening, a young fellow was lifted on a table and sang “Madelon,” a song popular with the French just then.

It was pretty close to midnight when a message came in that one of our cars had broken down along the road about ten miles out. A relief party was organized and the dance came to an end.

It had been snowing in the late afternoon and evening. When we went out of the Lion d’Or the moon was breaking through the clouds, and the streets, tile roofs of the houses and the church steeples were white with snow.

Not one of us who was not a little sad a few days later on receiving orders to move from the town of Aillianville to the ancient town of Beaufromont, built on the side of a steep hill. We were glad that the villagers also expressed sorrow at the parting. Some of those plain peasant women were kind enough to weep a little as they smilingly waved “Au ’voir” to us.