A soldier's mother in France

by Rheta Childe Dorr

The marching men were a pretty weedy and ill-conditioned lot, city bred, most of them, indoor workers looking less than their average of twenty-three years. They struggled and panted under their burden of suit-cases, canvas kit bags, bundles and other receptacles. Their faces wore expressions of anxiety and fatigue, and a few looked actually terror stricken. In the crowds that lined the avenue were many women, mothers, wives and sweethearts of the men, and their suffering was often pitiful to see and to hear. Above the blare of the bands their voices floated shrilly:

“There he is—there’s Henry. Oh, my God!”

“Abie! Ach mein sohn!”

“Oh! Oh! Isn’t it too horrible? All those boys going to their death!”

What brought me that sudden acute vision of memory was the complete contrast of the facts and what those suffering women had foreseen as facts. Also the astonishing contrast between the drafted recruit and the soldier a few months’ work had created. Nowhere in the United States had I ever seen anything like the husky young lieutenants who were being introduced to me, and a few minutes later were escorting me through the mud to the cottage where I was to have lunch. We ate in a stone-flagged kitchen furnished with a table, some rough wooden chairs and an old oak dresser that would have tempted a collector. There was a huge fireplace, in the chimney of which hung a dozen hams and bacons, and some garlickly sausages, all smoking in the fire of poplar logs. The walls were hung with highly colored pictures of saints and martyrs.

The food was good and there were mountains of it. Beef stew, fried potatoes, beans, vegetables, bread and butter, a pudding with raisins and a wine sauce, cups and cups of hot coffee. Every one from the captain down ate prodigiously, for it was the last sit-down-at-a-table meal the men were going to enjoy for at least two weeks. Their corps was starting for the trenches within an hour.

After lunch I hurried out to take a look at the relieving party of soldiers, standing at ease on one side of the narrow street. They were drafted men, not regulars, and this was to be their first taste of fighting, their baptism of fire, as men have termed it. The far sound of guns that troubled the air was all they knew of artillery. Two weeks from that hour they would know more. They would be able to distinguish between one gun and another, and to name each one as it roared. They would have all the slang names, the Minnie Wurfer, the Dolly Sisters, that explode more than once as they fly, the typewriters, as they call machine guns. Now they knew only a distant growl, menacing, warning, inviting. Were they ready, our men?

Physically they were ready. You could see that. Men who six or eight months ago would have sent for an express wagon to carry more than a suit-case, stood up there in the icy mud straight and clean and hard as nails. Their chests filled their coats to the bulging point, and on their backs they carried without strain or effort between sixty and seventy pounds of equipment. Each man carried, besides his gun and ammunition, half a tent, a haversack of clothing, a mess kit, a trench tool, a gas mask, a bayonet, a knapsack of food, a water bottle, an extra pair of heavy, hob-nailed boots, and a few other miscellaneous articles of his own choosing.

“The blankets and really heavy things go on the trucks,” explained one of the lieutenants. “The men carry with them no more than they would absolutely have to have in case they were taken prisoner, extra clothing and personal effects, I mean. A man who falls into the hands of the Germans needs extra shirts, socks and boots. You bet, Fritz hasn’t any to spare.”

Then I saw that the men of our army were ready indeed. At this frank suggestion of possible capture by a cruel foe did they shudder and turn pale? They did not. They grinned and wagged their absurd tin hats and said: “You betcha,” and “You said it.” They were as unconcerned as though they were waiting for a subway train instead of army trucks headed for the trenches. Months of training, outdoor living, regular habits, obedience to orders, devotion to an idea, have worked this physical and spiritual miracle with our draft army. The men are as strong as the Rooseveltian bull moose. They are hardened to mud and cold and wildest weather, and their nerves are as steady as an old clock.