"I have explained to my friend that she must fight for France and she has said in that case she is willing to go," he told them in French. They took her, too, and he hiked back a dozen miles or so without another word.
Once on the ship again, we laid in the harbor at Villefranche for a week, but from the deck you could see the little seaport town and that line of men that wound over the hill—tramping—tramping toward the sunset—thousands of them—an endless stream.
We went to Gibralter. Just to let you know how particular them British ships had become let me tell you that they halted us at sea one night and made us run up our colors. They weren't taking no chances.
We laid there another week—no liberty—nothing. We knew then we was in the War Zone. The gates were down and only the French and English allowed in. You couldn't even coal your ship, and what was more, we were in direct line of fire from the British guns behind us. We heaved a sigh as we started down to Tangiers, Morocco.
Some contrast! No excitement—no faintest hint of a war. Just a dirty Arab town with streets so narrow your shoulders graze the walls on either side. Dirt and flies and beggars.
We was burning up for news—we went crazy tied up there a month. Then we went home and learned what was happening. We heard about Verdun and the Kaiser promising to make Paris by Christmas and all such rot.
Folks asked us what we thought of the war. I used to say, "If you want to know my opinion, I think the sooner we lend those Frenchies a hand the better!" and that's just what we're doing—at last!
You get so you love them if you stay around them awhile. They're so happy and cheerful, but when there's business to be done you can't put nothing over on them! I won't never forget that old fellow and his blind mare. Gee! How he did hate to part from her! But that didn't stop him from doing it. But then that's Frenchies for you—nothing is too much. . . !