A soldier's mother in France

by Rheta Childe Dorr

No one has had to call for a congressional investigation into the women’s share in the war. Because the men who are in the training camps, on the seas and in the fighting zone are not soldiers to us. They are our sons. The French and English soldiers, the Canadians, the men from Australia, South Africa, Italy, Belgium, they too, are mothers’ sons, and we don’t go back on our sons.

What the mothers of this country have done for the men who fight, and for their people at home, has been to bring hope to their hearts and laughter to their lips. It has enabled them to face danger with a smile.

Every once in a while since I returned from France I have heard the phrase, “The English and the French are bled white.” Don’t you believe it. After nearly four years of appalling carnage, after the loss of millions of their best and bravest, the courage of our allies, men and women, is marvelous. Since we came into the war that courage has become exaltation. Nothing can shake it.

For all that we have been able to do in the way of supplying the allies with food, it will not do to assume that they have more than enough to keep themselves in good condition. The English seem to have a greater shortage than the French, but that is mainly, I think, because the French know better how to prepare and serve food, and how to make a simple meal attractive.

In England I often felt not exactly hungry but a dissatisfaction which was almost as bad. The diet was monotonous. Meat was almost invariably roasted, vegetables were always boiled and served without sauces.

In France, on the other hand, they have made an art of dining, and even now, in war time, they give you the impression that you are being extremely well fed. Yet the French are short of breadstuffs. Their war bread is good, and I had enough of it at every meal. But the average person in France eats twice and three times the amount of bread at a meal that is eaten in America. Bread is literally the staff of life in France.

Meat, while expensive, was plentiful all during the winter. That was because there was so little grain. They could not afford to feed their cattle and so slaughtered them. Beginning May fifteenth the French food authorities decreed three meatless days a week for the republic, and since France is generally Catholic, that meant for the majority four days, an additional day, Friday, being observed by the Catholics.

There was milk for little children and for invalids, but, except for a small jug with my morning coffee, I never saw milk while I was in France. Butter could be used in limited quantities in cooking, but it was forbidden to be served at the table.

Sugar, too, was almost a forbidden article. Some hotels and private houses served a little sugar with coffee and tea, but mostly the saccharine substitute was offered. Just before I left France, at the end of April, sugar cards were being issued entitling the holders to a pound of white sugar each month.

Only plain bread is baked in France. The innumerable little rolls and crescents, so delicious with the morning coffee, have disappeared. There is no such thing as pastry. Sweets are supplied in jams and marmalades, a limited quantity being allowed once or twice a day. There are no desserts except fruits, fresh or preserved.