But turning the film back to La Belle France, here we have nice climate, an exciting war, excellent champagne and a set of girls that would make the boys back home green with envy. What more could a man ask? The only trouble with the French people is their unfailing habit of trying to overcharge us. However, we are getting on to their curves now and take discounts off every price they ask. For instance, when I go into a candy shop the proprietress will exclaim: "Ah, bon Americain." Then she will proceed to quote me one and one-half francs for a bar of five-cent chocolate. After a little hesitation and figuring on my part I slip her half a franc, and even at that she is making a 75 per cent profit. She accepts the slight reduction with a deprecating air, and probably mutters to herself: "Those Yankees are as stupid as foxes." Aside from our little monetary differences we and the French are the most affectionate of comrades.
Somewhere in France we camped next door to a Chinese labor camp. There was a small army of them. The Mongolians are the best pals we have run into yet. They were so honored by the attention paid to them by the whites that they broke their necks to please us. When I said to a Chink: "Gimme a cigarette, Charlie," he would run a quarter of a mile to his tent and come back with a fistful. Some of the Chinks even wanted to lend money to our boys. Unfortunately, however, our bunch got to selling them, at exorbitant prices, gold rings that after a rainstorm resembled the Irish flag, and wrist watches with the small item of works entirely missing. The English soldiers sort of wised up the Yellow Perils to our tricks and before we parted company with them they became noticeably cool toward us. Well, they were Coolies, anyhow. That's a cool joke.
Lower down in France we were camped directly opposite a tribe of Hindus—you know, the kind with knotted Turkish towels for hats. These birds bury and pick the pockets of all soldiers killed on the front, so you cannot sell them trinkets. They have carloads of them. The Hindus are surlier and dirtier than the Chinese gentlemen, and we did not mingle with them so freely. If you want to get them drawing knives just holler, "Buddha no bon!" They are fanatics on religion. About a week ago we visited their camp and they immediately challenged us to a tug of war. They had about twelve on one end of the rope and we had only seven. Evidently, however, they are not over strong, because we pulled them almost up to the firing line. They are hard losers, and might have drawn their bowies, but I think they suspected we were Irish, so they remained peaceable.
The guns play a constant tattoo at night, and I am getting used to them now. The other day a few other fellows and myself made a tour of inspection among some recently deserted German trenches up near the line. In them we found feather beds, a box of cigars and, last but not least, a beautifully toned organ. The feather beds were wet and coated with mud, so we couldn't bother with them. You will say "Impossible" when I say I left the cigars there also. This I did, however, as the Germans have a playful habit of poisoning such dainties. The organ was badly warped and too far below the ground to attempt to salvage, but we stayed there for a while and I made the subterranean passages echo to the strains of "Ragging the Scale."
Another pet trick that the Germans employ is to leave a watch hanging on the wall of their abandoned trenches. Said watch connects with a high explosive bomb which explodes when the Ingersoll is removed from the wall. The other night I was talking with a couple of English soldiers, who told me that the English and Bavarians became so friendly at one stage of the war that a squad of the English soldiers crossed over to the German trenches one night, had a little souse party with the Bavarians and returned back to the allied trenches in the morning. For this they were court-martialled. They say that the Bavarians will frequently holler over to the English not to fire any shots so that they can eat their dinner in quiet, and they will reciprocate in like manner. The English apparently have no hard feelings against the Bavarians, but sure do hate the Prussians. Yesterday I saw a vicious air fight. The German aviator looped the loop with his machine fully a dozen times in order to escape the machine-gun fire from the Allies' planes, and escape he did, for I saw him shooting over the German lines leaving his pursuers far behind.
Any German prisoners I see I always give them a cheery, "Wie gehts?" and some of them answer "Good morning" in English. They are sick of the war and claim they are glad to be prisoners. Visited a large French city the other day which the Germans had occupied but which was recaptured by the French. No human being could imagine the destruction that has been wrought there. Among the thousands of houses there is not a single one that could be lived in. Most of them are beaten to dust, churches and everything else. An old Frenchman there told me with tears in his eyes how his daughter and the rest of the girls of the city had been forcibly taken away by the Germans when they were evacuating the city. I can now understand enough French to converse in a broken way. The slogan here now is, "Give the Germans hell and take no prisoners." From all stories and indications they have acted like barbarians and deserve the worst treatment possible. Their fire is becoming weaker and I think their days are numbered. The Americans will put the finishing touches on them, and don't be surprised if I send you a postcard from Berlin some day.
II—STORY OF A VOLUNTEER IN AMERICAN RED CROSS
(Told by Edward J. Doyle, with American Army)
The experiences and the souvenirs—such as a piece of shell shot through an ambulance and buttons cut from the uniforms of German prisoners—of a volunteer in the American Red Cross service are recorded in this letter.
Sherman was right, but he knows nothing about it. I suppose by this time you know all about the attack, and needless to say I have been through it all. Haven't had my clothes off in over a week and my total sleep might average about three hours a day for that time, so you can imagine how I feel. We haven't been working all the time, but we get shelled out of every place we try to sleep, when we get a chance, and that's worse than working. We are quite a way to the left of where I wrote from last. We relieved a section that could not stand the work—that was before the attack—and you can imagine what it was during and since the attack.