At last we stopped, and were told that we had reached our destination.
We had reached the “Base Station,” or “Rest Camp,” and went into quarters. They consisted of low, one-story, portable barracks, lightly built with dirt floors, white oiled cotton cloth for windows, and with wooden cots similar to those in our home barracks. Though not as luxurious by a big sight, they were comfortable. It was one of several similar camps on the outskirts of an inland historic city.
We took our ease for a few days, slept, ate, and visited the town when we could get a pass. None was allowed out of our well-guarded camp without one, and all must return at 9.30 P. M. or be punished. Then we began the routine of drill again, with French officers to teach us the new methods of fighting, such as bomb throwing and trench duty.
At retreat one afternoon we were informed that we were to be reviewed the next day. So after mess we shaved, bathed, brushed up our equipments and uniforms with unusual care, and with a French regiment for escort, marched and countermarched, with the stars and stripes flying and bands playing; and then marched some more!
The contrast between the French escort and our men was great. The French were different in many ways, some of them impossible to express in words. They were of inferior stature, many of them being not over five feet, two inches, and by contrast our men seemed giants. Their step was quick and brisk, while the strides of the Americans was a long, swinging stride, the step of men accustomed to hills and rough land, not that of good roads and pavements.
We were greeted heartily by the crowds of people gathered on the sidewalks and at the windows of the buildings. Cries of “vive les Amerique!” and other calls, that I did not comprehend, were heard. Flowers were thrown at us. But there were no long-drawn-out cheers such as we were accustomed to hear at home on similar occasions. After much marching and parading there came the order:
“Halt! Right dress! Front! Present arms!”
We were being reviewed by that great French soldier who, when the German hordes were marching on Paris, threw himself like a lion in their path and turned the current of the battle, General Pétain.
Some of us had read of him and looked with intense interest at this soldier of France. He was an erect martial figure, a little stout; with eyes keen, steady and penetrating, a white mustache, all the whiter by contrast with the darkening tan that told of long service in the field. No one could mistake him for other than a soldier; he bore that undefinable stamp of long service, discipline, and command of men.
Then we passed in review with our wagon trains, cannon, and machine guns, the people cheering in their way, and showering us with wreaths and flowers.