I—STORY OF THE AMERICAN POET
It was in the Thiescourt Woods, I remember, that I saw Alan on his return from convalescent leave. My section was in first line trenches and his, in reserve, in the second line. I was on soup fatigue and was going to the Chauffour Quarry when I saw him in front of me, walking along alone. Throwing down the marmites (tin receptacles) with which I was loaded, I rushed to shake him by the hand. He had, it seemed to me, grown slightly thinner, his pale face seemed slightly paler, and his eyes, his fine eyes with their far-away look, ever lost in distant contemplation, were still as dreamy as ever.
He told me how sorry he was not to be still with me as he had been transferred to the first section and I belonged to the third. But we saw each other every day. He would recount the joys of his two months' convalescent leave, and I shall never forget how one phrase was often on his lips, "Life is only beautiful if divided between war and love. They are the only two things truly great, fine and perfect, everything else is but petty and mean. I have known love for the last few weeks in all its beauty and now I want to make war, ... but fine war, a war of bayonet charges, the desperate pursuit of an enemy in flight, the entry as conqueror, with trumpets sounding, into a town that we have delivered! Those are the delights of war! Where in civil life can be found any emotion so fine and strong as those?"
And we would exalt our spirits with hopes of making an assault with the bayonet, hopes that were not doomed to disappointment, for a few weeks later we were to attack.
II—AN ODE TO AMERICAN PATRIOTISM
One day while we were in reserve at the Martin Quarries Alan came to look for me. He was full of joy and showed me a telegram that he had received from Paris, asking him to compose a poem which he himself was to read in public at a Franco-American manifestation, for which he was to receive forty-eight hours' leave. Alan was overjoyed at the opportunity of obtaining leave, but was too retiring to think of reading his poem himself; he would try, he told me, to have it read by some one else.
The eve of the ceremony arrived—I cannot recall the date—but no leave came. We were in the trenches and chance had placed me near Seeger in "petit poste" (the small outlook post, some yards in advance of the first line trench). He confessed that he had lost all hope of going, and I tried to find all sorts of arguments to encourage him, that his leave might come at dawn, and that by taking the train at Ressons at 7 A.M. he could still reach Paris by noon and would have plenty of time, as the ceremony was at 2.
The morning came, and instead of bringing the much desired permission to leave it brought a terrible downpour of rain, and the day passed sadly. He found consolation in the thought that July 4 would soon arrive, when the Americans with the Foreign Legion might hope for forty-eight hours' leave, as last year. Alas! He little thought that on that date....
[The ceremony referred to was held on May 30, in connection with Decoration Day celebrations. Wreaths to the Americans killed for France were placed around the statue of Washington and Lafayette, in the Place des Etats-Unis, Paris. By an unfortunate mistake the forty-eight hours' leave granted for the event was made for June 30 instead of May 30. The ode which Alan Seeger composed for the occasion was printed in The Sun a few days after the author had fallen in battle.]
On June 21 we left the sector of the Thiescourt Woods for an unknown destination, which proved to be the Somme. We took the train at Estrees St. Denis and on June 22 about 10 A.M. reached Boves. Under a blazing sun, in heat that seemed to have escaped from the furnace of hell, we started for Bayonviller. We had undergone no such march since the war began.