The days at Passavant were about the brightest spot in our stay in France. The training schedules were on hand again, of course. Chauchats were issued to replace the Lewis guns of the English sector; much to the disgust of the auto riflemen, who had worked so hard learning the Lewis, and found the Chauchat but a crude affair comparatively. But the weather was beautiful; there was a stream to wash in, and a lovely lake about a mile away where you could have a swim—the only time we enjoyed this luxury that summer. The people were pleasant; we were getting American rations; all went well.
It was too good to last long. On August 27th we got a march order, and at 1:00 P. M. the next day we pulled out, down the hill to Passavant, up hill through the town, and fell in behind the second battalion for a long, long hike through the summer afternoon and evening.
Six o’clock came, and seven. Still no sign of camp. It was growing dark. The men were good and tired; but “B” company held to its record as the best marching company in the outfit, and plodded along doggedly. I felt uncomfortable every time I looked back at my four platoons; I felt that I ought to be hiking with them instead of on the Major’s horse; knowing, however, that I had a couple of hours hard work ahead of me after we camped, I turned back to the road ahead, and wished the Major were back.
At last, at 8:00 P. M., when it was quite dark, we turned off to the left, crossed several fields, and came to a number of frame barracks. These had bunks within them—about half enough to accommodate the men, but we were glad to lie down anywhere. After the usual turmoil we got supper under way, and as fast as chow could be obtained and swallowed, we hit the hay—some in barracks, others in pup tents in the fields outside. We had done about 20 kilos that day.
The next morning we pulled out at 9 o’clock, hiked into Fresnes, the village near by, and then out on a good wide road, heading generally west. The Colonel, who was making the hike in an automobile, had a theory that no man needed more than a pint of water on any march, and the march discipline was to be very strict. The everlasting rain started again; it was hike, hike, hike. Who that hasn’t done it can ever understand the awful, soul tearing grind of a long hike with full pack? After the first hour, the pack gets heavy on the back and shoulders. You see the feet of the fellow ahead—up and down, up and down, remorselessly, steadily—doesn’t he ever get tired? If he can make it, you can. Some buckle or piece of equipment gets loose, and goes jingle, jingle, jingle, and slap, slap, slap against your leg. It gets irritating. You are sweating and hot and dirty and uncomfortable. “Close up!” You mentally damn the officers, who haven’t any rifles; the ones who ride horses, doubly damned; and as for those birds in the autos—ahem! How long to the 10 minutes rest? Then it starts to rain. It beats into your face. You damn the boob who wished upon the Americans that prize inanity of equipment, the overseas cap. It is ingeniously designed to give the eyes and face no protection from sun, wind or rain, and at the same time efficiently to direct water down the back of your neck. On, on, on, plod, plash, squnchy, sqush. The Major looks at his watch. You eye the side of the road for a likely looking place. At last: “Fall out t’ right th’ road.” You stumble over and plump down on the ground. Oh, blessed moment! you ease the load on your shoulders; your feet are tingling with happiness at being off duty; after a few breaths you fish out a cigarette or the old pipe, and light up for a few puffs. You lean back—
“Fall in!”
Oh, murder! You know it hasn’t been four minutes, let alone ten.
Toward noon we passed through Bourbonne-les-Bains, quite a sizable town; and as we went plugging along by the railroad station there was Major Odom. He was carried off by the Colonel in his car, but took command of the battalion that night, and I was glad to get back to “B” Co.
Up that long, long, steep street we plugged along, rested, then pushed on well clear of the town, and halted beside a pretty green meadow in the woods for lunch. After we finished our hard bread, corned willy and jam, and were lying about in heavenly idleness for a few minutes, Roy Schuyler’s eye fell upon the bn. adjutant’s horse; a dignified and rotund, rather elderly mare, indulging in a roll while her saddle and bridle were off. In a minute Roy was on the astonished beast’s back. Encouraged by a couple of hearty thwacks from a club, Mary started on a very creditable imitation of youthful gamboling. It was a gallant sight for a summer afternoon. Often since, the picture has come back to me—the prancing horse, the laughing young rider with one hand in her mane, the other brandished aloft. But our time is up; Mary must resume her saddle, and we our packs, and off we go.
The shadows lengthened; the sun dropped down behind the hills, and the long French twilight set in. Still no sign of our guides to indicate our billet was near. Village after village came into view, raised our hopes, and dashed them again as we plodded on. At last, at about 6:00 P. M., we slogged into Merrey. There the Colonel was waiting, in his car. He remarked cheerfully that he had had quite a hunt for billets, but had found a splendid spot. We hiked through the village, and turned off the road into the splendid spot—a pine grove, very wet and rooty as to floor, and no water around. We were satisfied to get off our feet, however. After the usual procedure of getting kicked out of X company’s area, and kicking Y company out of ours, we rigged up shelter tents or sleeping bags. Of course the water carts weren’t on hand, and dinner was held up. There are two recurrent occasions in a soldier’s life when the seconds drag most fearsomely; the interval between a shell’s landing and bursting; and the interval between the end of a hike and chow.