AN 
 
 AMERICAN 
 
 POILU 
 
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 CjDP»UGHT DEPOSm 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 

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 AN 
 
 AMERICAN POILU 
 
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 aoWVAD • Q3S 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 
 
 1919 
 

 Copyright, 1919, 
 By Little, Bkown, and Company. 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
 Nottnooti ^reas 
 
 Set up and electrotyped by J. S. Gushing Co., Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. 
 
 Presswork by S. J. Parkhill & Co., Boston, Mass., U.S.A. 
 
 MAR 28 1919 
 3)CI.A512833 
 
 'f 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 The War, that great refiner's fire, 
 has burned away much of the dross cum- 
 bering humankind, and left us face to 
 face with the true metal of a myriad 
 of souls before whose naked purity and 
 selflessness we bow in homage. 
 
 They are the youth who followed the 
 Gleam, soldiers who despite the grim- 
 ness of battle never lost sight of the 
 vision that transformed reality to an 
 ideal ; and made of suffering an incident, 
 and of carnage a crusade for humanity. 
 
 The accompanying letters sent by an 
 American to his mother and sister seemed 
 too rare a possession to be held in the 
 custody of the few; therefore that the 
 benediction they bring may be shared 
 by others they are being printed. They 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 were not designed for publication. 
 Nevertheless, who would ask that they 
 be touched by the editor's pencil? 
 
 That an American in his thirties, a 
 nature sensitively attuned and poetic, 
 should for the cause of the right volun- 
 tarily cast in his lot with the French 
 poilu, and amid the brutalities of war, 
 the tramp of armies, the din of cannon 
 keep his spirit so serene that the star 
 of his purpose is never dimmed, nor 
 the beauty of his surroundings over- 
 shadowed, is little short of a miracle. 
 He was not a boy to be fascinated by 
 the glamour of adventure; neither was 
 he of the type to whose imagination 
 a military career appealed. It was only 
 his love for France and for his fellowman 
 that lured him into dedicating his life 
 to the world freedom. 
 
 Before our own country entered the 
 struggle, Mr. X., who had often so- 
 journed in Paris and had there many 
 friends, crossed the ocean to give his 
 services as an orderly at the hospital 
 vi 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 at Neuilly ; and it was while on this 
 errand of mercy that he formed the 
 friendship with the wounded officer who 
 was so vitally to influence his future. 
 The two men had many tastes in com- 
 mon ; both were persons of refinement 
 and a broad culture, and both were 
 endowed with a discriminating love for 
 literature and for art. During the weary 
 weeks of the Captain's convalescence 
 there sprang up between them an affec- 
 tion so tough of fiber that by the time 
 the commander was able to be discharged 
 and return to his troops a plan had been 
 perfected whereby the orderly should 
 accompany him as a member of the 
 French infantry, the condition for en- 
 listment being that the new recruit 
 should remain with that particular regi- 
 ment for the duration of the war, and 
 not be subject to transfer. 
 
 Such a request was unusual, and 
 
 coming from an American unequipped 
 
 for army duty was without precedent 
 
 in the French War Office. In conse- 
 
 vii 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 quence it was necessary to present the 
 papers personally to the Minister of 
 War, and when they were returned it 
 was with the unique distinction of being 
 the only application of the sort ever 
 received by the French Government from 
 an American citizen. 
 
 The letters describing the initiate's 
 training for service are naive and amus- 
 ing. Not only was he ignorant of mili- 
 tary tactics but although familiar with 
 the French tongue he had no technical 
 knowledge of foreign war terms ; in 
 addition he was quite unaccustomed 
 to the vigorous physical exercise his new 
 calling demanded. 
 
 Nevertheless the letters he sent back 
 to the mother and sister across seas 
 never emphasize his discomforts, but 
 dwell always on the larger truth of which 
 the actual was but a symbol. 
 
 "My dreams are my support," he 
 says. "I transform in order to endure." 
 
 One quotation picturing a visit he 
 and the Captain made to the rolling 
 viii 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 kitchens nicely illustrates this quality 
 of mind : 
 
 "An interesting sight, these stoves 
 on wheels, with the stew inside. The 
 cook, a huge fork in his dirty hand, stands 
 near by, and the crowd of pathetic poilus 
 gather round with their cups and pails. 
 ... I watch and I have a vision. Sud- 
 denly behind the backs of these dreary, 
 muddy, homesick soldiers I see the 
 treasures of Paris : the Venus de Milo, 
 the rose windows of Notre Dame, the 
 golden galleries of the Louvre, the gar- 
 dens and avenues — quiet, sunny, leafy 
 — all the splendors seeking safety and 
 finding it behind these little crowding 
 soldiers waiting for their pails of supper. 
 It is visions such as these that keep me 
 going." 
 
 Amid the round of camp life the 
 balance between friendship for his Cap- 
 tain and comradeship with his brothers- 
 in-arms is carefully sustained. All he 
 has he shares with the latter, who in 
 return affectionately dub him "L'Ame- 
 ix 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 rique", a pseudonym he accepts with a 
 full realization of the obligation it en- 
 tails. A single passage from a letter 
 sent by the Captain of the regiment to 
 the mother of the American Poilu is 
 too sincere a tribute to be omitted : 
 
 *'I am X.'s friend and together we 
 are sharing in the Great War. I wish 
 simply to assure you that in the diffi- 
 culties that await him, in the fatigues, 
 and in the midst of danger he will never 
 be alone. It is easy to be devoted 
 and affectionate toward him, for he him- 
 self gives so much love and devotion. 
 He is adored by all the men of the com- 
 pany who are sensible of his camaraderie 
 and the simplicity he manifests toward 
 each of them. He can count on the 
 devotion of every one, for all know his 
 merits and appreciate the beautiful ex- 
 ample of courage that his presence among 
 them gives." 
 
 That this faith was not misplaced 
 was amply demonstrated by the events 
 that followed. At the great battle in 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 June, 1918, where the Cap tarn was shot 
 down, and later at the famous battle 
 of Soissons-Chateau-Thierry where the 
 intrepid poilu himself was wounded, and 
 from which slaughter only fourteen 
 of the company escaped unscathed, 
 America's son so conducted himself as 
 to bring only honor to the twin Republics 
 to which he owned allegiance. 
 
 *'I do not know," he muses on the eve 
 of the coming conflict, "how I shall 
 behave in battle ; but I know I shall 
 not be afraid." 
 
 Nor was he. 
 
 His modest delight in his Croix de 
 Guerre and in his second citation is 
 childlike in its wonder. 
 
 "I have been cited for the French 
 Cross — I, w^ho was never a soldier!" 
 
 It was, as he said, "the climax of the 
 unexpected." 
 
 He alludes only sketchily, however, 
 
 to the martial turmoil seething about 
 
 him. Instead his letters are redolent 
 
 with the perfume of gardens, and rich 
 
 xi 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 with the kaleidoscopic hues of country- 
 side, stream, and woodland. Twilight 
 steals over the valley "with the timidity 
 of a woman begging", and "day is a 
 blue divinity, violets and an unnamed 
 yellow blossom hanging over the 
 trenches." 
 
 Of his love for those who are so dear 
 to him who can speak with such elo- 
 quence as himself ? 
 
 Truly war is not without its compensa- 
 tions when through the rifts of the 
 battle's haze we are granted glimpses of 
 a soul like this ! 
 
 Sara Ware Bassett. 
 
 Boston, Massachusetts, 
 January 6, 1919. 
 
 Xll 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 Paris, Saturday, July 21, 1917. 
 Cherie — 
 
 Everything is arranged and within the 
 next seven days I shall enter the most 
 mysterious dream of my life. Yes, it 
 seems a dream — a dream, however, so 
 well buttressed by splendors that if I 
 chance not to come down to breakfast 
 you and mother and H. and all my 
 friends will understand that I have done 
 well. Although my case is unique in the 
 French Infantry, all has been arranged as 
 nicely as possible for me. Captain C. 
 has the government's authority to keep 
 me in his company. In fact I received 
 a letter from the War Minister enlisting 
 me only in Company 247 au armeey 
 which is to say that I cannot be put in 
 any other but Captain C.'s. The Com- 
 mander at St. Malo has even arranged 
 
 1 
 
^A^ AMERICAN POILU 
 
 that while I'm there (which is only for 
 two weeks) I may eat and sleep inside 
 the caserne. This will be a great help, 
 as naturally at the very first I shall need 
 whatever comfort I can get to aid me to 
 meet the enormous change of life. Fancy 
 me up at five o'clock in the morning, 
 gun in hand. Fancy me drilling all day. 
 How tired I shall be — my back aches 
 at the mere prospect — but how splen- 
 did ; and as I have written you I am in 
 excellent health — rosy as a youth of 
 eighteen and feel as strong as a lion. 
 Of course the two weeks at St. Malo 
 are nothing ; from there I go to a depot 
 located five miles (about) from the actual 
 front. There I put in two months train- 
 ing and after that proceed directly to the 
 trenches. Life in the trenches is for me 
 at present unimaginable, but I shall do 
 my best and at least work to keep serene ; 
 serenity is a great quality of a good sol- 
 dier, so it seems to me. And you and 
 mother must try to be good soldiers — 
 always remembering that the cause is 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 worth more than anything that I can 
 possibly give. The move alone justifies 
 your unfailing love for me — and justifies 
 mother's and justifies my love for the 
 right, the strong, the unselfish, the 
 
 beautiful. 
 
 E. 
 
 Depot du ^Ihne Regiment (Vlnfanterie, 
 St. Malo, July ^27, 1917. 
 
 Dear Mother — 
 
 How I wish you could see me. I am 
 a poilu — since yesterday afternoon at 
 four o'clock. I am "dressed up" in a 
 not perfectly fitting blue uniform and a 
 little bonnet stuck over one ear. I look 
 like a youth of twenty -one — I am rosy 
 and chic. iVIy shoes are of greased cow- 
 hide and my legs are bound to the knees 
 with blue puttees. The uniform is a 
 heavenly color and hot as hell and I 
 feel like a happy stranger dropped from 
 the moon. The first opportunity that 
 comes, my picture shall be taken and 
 sent to you. 
 
 3 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 I left Paris at seven-thirty o'clock. 
 My last days in town were very exciting. 
 In my somewhat large circle of friends I 
 am become a hero — why, I know not. 
 The oiivroir gave me a farewell tea — 
 the ladies were charming — a red, white 
 and blue bouquet was put in my button- 
 hole — speeches were made and I was 
 lavishly kissed. This took place Thurs- 
 day afternoon. I was enormously 
 touched — so many kind eyes looking 
 at me — so many kind wishes given to 
 me. Friday afternoon at four o'clock 
 I made my final signature and now until 
 the end of the war I'm a French sol- 
 dier. Nothing but the most serious 
 event can take me away from the job. 
 How wonderful it is to be in the great 
 waves, one with the best of mankind. 
 Could you realize my present happiness 
 you would go about your house singing 
 like a lark. 
 
 Well, after the signing in Paris I had 
 twenty-four hours in which to reach 
 my Depot, so I left Paris last night and 
 4 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 arrived here this morning at eight o'clock. 
 I met the dawn in Normandy. To tell 
 you my sensations of that long ride, 
 sitting up, will be an evening's pleasure 
 at C. F. after the war. 
 
 As I've told you, my case is very ex- 
 ceptional and my Captain has arranged 
 everything in his power to aid me and 
 smooth my way. Long before you re- 
 ceive this letter I shall be at the front. 
 You will hear from me reo-ularlv. Don't 
 write to me until you get my exact ad- 
 dress. Pray for me, love me and know 
 I am completely happy. 
 
 E. 
 
 St. Malo, July 29, 1917. 
 Dear Mother — 
 
 As you may very well imagine there 
 are amusing moments being a poilu. 
 This morning, for instance, we were 
 taking account of all the luggage I 
 must carry on my back when I leave 
 here August 2nd for *' somewhere in 
 France." The uniform and overcoat are 
 
 5 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 by no means light, and then listen to 
 the multitude of things I must hang 
 about me — thirty pounds in all. A 
 knapsack stuffed with underclothing, a 
 musette stuffed with food, a bidon hold- 
 ing wine, a blanket, a tent cloth, a tin 
 cup, a tin dish, a gas mask and a hel- 
 met. Also 120 cartridges and a bayo- 
 net. A gun of course in my hand. 
 
 "Well," the Captain suddenly asked, 
 "and what will you do if you meet an 
 officer? How will you salute with a 
 gun?" 
 
 "Mon Dieu," I cried, "I haven't an 
 idea." 
 
 "Remember the streets of Paris are 
 filled with officers and to fail in a salute 
 often means severe punishment." I 
 found this very funny. 
 
 However, to-morrow I'm to have my 
 first training with a gun and if on August 
 2nd I come across an officer, — as with- 
 out doubt I shall, — he may think me 
 hugely awkward but he will see my faith 
 is good. Yesterday and to-day I've 
 6 
 
^A^ AMERICAN POILU 
 
 been learning the grades of my superiors, 
 which is Uke a foreign language to me, 
 and my own numbers — in French this 
 is not so easy. Also I'm breaking in 
 my new shoes (a hard job for my tender 
 feet) and my uniform. The strangeness 
 of it all charms and slightly terrifies me. 
 I cannot tell you how romantic, even 
 thrilling, it is to so suddenly find mj^self 
 a soldier in this old, gray- walled city. 
 Surely it is the great adventure of my 
 life. And everybody is so willing to 
 aid ; that is to say, the soldiers and 
 officers at the Depot. If I can keep well 
 and resist the fatigue of the first month 
 I am sure I shall be a very good soldier and 
 add a richness to all the days left me. 
 
 E. 
 
 Depot du Vieme, St. Malo. 
 
 August 1, 1917. 
 
 Bien chere Cherie — 
 
 Your letter of July 12th, written a 
 few days after my first cable, arrived 
 here last night. On first reading it 
 7 
 
^A^ AMERICAN POILU 
 
 made me unhappy — deeply so — (not 
 regretful for my decision you must under- 
 stand, but simply unhappy) but on 
 second reading I realized you wrote in 
 confusion, astonishment and perhaps ter- 
 ror, not being naturally en rapport suffi- 
 ciently with my conditions or my plans. 
 Surely it must have been trying to 
 suddenly hear that instead of sailing 
 for home after all these months away 
 I proposed to volunteer for the great 
 adventure. I understand, dear, and I 
 hope and believe that the letters you 
 have since received from me have estab- 
 lished your morale. For you as for 
 me it is the opportunity. Whatever 
 the outcome, it is destined to cast a 
 real splendor about us forever and ever 
 — and you and I have always been so 
 eager for a real splendor, isn't it so? 
 Personally I am vastly happy — as I've 
 never been before. I only regret I'm 
 not an ox with the strength of ten and 
 the lives of "Billy" to hurl myself 
 against the Boches. I have heard of 
 
^A^ AMERICAN POILU 
 
 Louvain and Rheims ; I have seen their 
 devastation. I want to be a soldier — 
 in fact I am: a poilu with a number 
 14914 and a gun and a little tin cup — 
 and a splendid captain, I am no longer 
 an outsider. The law and the right 
 are at my back, and in my heart and ear 
 the order to advance. I cannot fail — 
 or, rather, even failure in this case has 
 its touch of nobility. Do you under- 
 stand ? We are alive — we have become 
 a part of our generation — I have my 
 role to play and you have yours. When 
 once you realize the prospect you cannot 
 be other than happy and proud. You 
 will bear the hardships with me and the 
 light will fall on your mourning. I see 
 you proud, intelligent and happy. I do 
 it for you, and when I come sailing up 
 Boston Harbor our joy will be white 
 and solid as marble. You know my pen 
 and that I can only express myself in 
 this way of writing. From my many 
 letters you will get, if you put them 
 together, a pretty good idea of why and 
 9 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 how I have started out. The influences 
 have been, naturally, enormous, obscure 
 and complex — but now my path is 
 clear, and to know you are happy and 
 courageous will be the sunlight on it. 
 
 E. 
 
 August 9, 1917. 
 Chere Mother — 
 
 There are so many many things to 
 write you that my poor pen staggers 
 at the labor — and too my time is 
 short. The soldier's life is a busy one, 
 especially when he is getting his train- 
 ing. It is indeed a great adventure 
 for me — like something in a delightful 
 old story-book. It is engrossing, physi- 
 cal, mental, fatiguing. My happiness 
 is intense ; a bird (I don't know what 
 kind) is singing in my bones, and what- 
 ever may be the outcome I can never 
 regret my decision. Of course my chance 
 here is extraordinary — a piece of the 
 fantastic luck that has followed me all 
 my life. A unique opportunity. 
 10 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 I left St. Malo five days ago and came 
 to this enchanting Httle village where 
 my regiment is stationed. The Cap- 
 tain in charge of the Depot (a royal 
 sort of fellow) received me with marked 
 cordiality — for two reasons : first as a 
 friend of Captain C.'s and second as an 
 American volunteer. He at once ar- 
 ranged everything for me in a perfect 
 manner. I eat with the officers — the 
 food is excellent — I'm lodged in a bewil- 
 deringly charming house — a large room, 
 airy, comfortable, with a casement win- 
 dow opening upon a veritable Matisse 
 garden. The orderly of my Captain 
 attends to my little needs — cleaning 
 shoes, etc. Each morning from seven 
 until nine I train alone under the special 
 orders of a young adjutant. He is a 
 splendid young fellow lately returned 
 from Verdun. My dear, whenever you 
 hear the word Verdun cross your heart 
 — its story is tremendous — history will 
 write it in gold. After my training I 
 study the mitrailleuses with two cap- 
 11 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 tains. Each morning since my arrival 
 (except Sunday when I played Canfield !) 
 I have assisted in taking apart the 
 mitrailleuse — it is a marvelous gun — 
 and thoroughly engrossing. Next week 
 I shall learn to discharge it. Already 
 I've shot off an automatic gun — it was 
 the first time in my life, and Captain 
 C. said my left arm trembled — but 
 I did it and enjoyed it. I hope to 
 become a good shot. Afternoons I march 
 under commands. We dine at seven ; 
 how can I tell you of the charm of our 
 meals? A long table set in the huge 
 stone-paved hall of an old house. Seated 
 about it charming officers. Our plates 
 are of tin, so are our cups. We are 
 lighted by candles burning in wine bottles. 
 The conversation is jolly and intelligent. 
 If I wish to ride a horse I may (we are 
 not sitting at the table now). Twice 
 I'ye been invited to go fishing, but 
 needless to say I'm too tired as yet to 
 use my leisure in sports. Every one 
 has been so nice. Five days has made 
 
 n 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 me a little thinner "under the ears" and 
 I'm burned. Write to me twice a week 
 and be content that I'm so happy and 
 have entered into so magnificent a cur- 
 rent. I shall remain here until November 
 and then move nearer the front. AH day 
 here we get the detonation of the French 
 and Boche cannon. So you see, for all it 
 is so delightful, we are on the warpath. 
 
 Devotedly, 
 
 E. 
 
 August 22, 1917. 
 Beloved Mother — 
 
 It is strange to read of such hot weather 
 at home. Our summer has been autum- 
 nal. August 1st at St. Malo was even 
 wintry. I wore a woolen shirt and 
 thick socks — and for all that took a 
 cold, which has long since vanished. 
 Recently our weather has been divine — 
 temperate describes it — just the thing 
 for training and horseback riding, of 
 which I have plenty. The days pass 
 swiftly and happily. Out of bed (or 
 13 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 rather off of bed — it is on the floor) 
 at five-thirty — training with the gun 
 until ten o'clock — mitrailleuses until 
 luncheon — theory of warfare until four 
 — ride across country or a march until 
 five-thirty — dinner — bed at nine. Of 
 course you understand my training is 
 (so far) very special owing to my friend- 
 ship with Captain C. For a man of 
 thirty -five training has its difficulties. 
 One must begin slowly. I work with 
 all my strength, sweat like an American 
 in August, and find the life very excit- 
 ing and pleasant. 
 
 Never shall I forget my reception in 
 the Depot by the Commandant R. and 
 his officers. It happened I arrived a 
 half hour or so before Captain C. (we 
 came in different carts), and you can 
 imagine the moment might have been 
 very difficult for me — a raw civilian ; 
 but no, I was greeted like a friend by 
 every one, and most charming men they 
 were too. Some have since been killed, 
 and I came only three weeks ago ! The 
 14 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 personnel of the Depot changes ahnost 
 daily — officers returning to the firing 
 line and Others coming here for a rest. 
 Yesterday noon arrived a young lieu- 
 tenant who thrilled me with his account 
 of the last attack near Verdun. He was 
 still deaf from the explosions. You could 
 not sleep if I should tell you all he told 
 me — of the splendor of certain acts — 
 of the heroics of the common soldiers. 
 Captain Pete thought he might receive 
 an order to go at once to the front (after 
 the news of the attack — several offi- 
 cers were killed) and we decided I should 
 go with him, training or no training. 
 Strange, but I've a mad curiosity to know 
 how I should act under a violent bombard- 
 ment. Fortunately I shall learn that later. 
 Word came Sunday to Commandant 
 R. to go to the south of Europe on a 
 commission. I was sorry to have him 
 go. He is a most charming man, with 
 a large knowledge of warfare and books. 
 Four of his brothers have been killed 
 since the beginning of the war. Nine 
 15 
 
^A^ AMERICAN POILU 
 
 left his father's house to fight. For 
 his last dinner Captain C. and I made 
 a little fete. An extra bottle of wine 
 and a funny menu which I hurriedly 
 arranged. He was very amused and 
 pleased. When he left all the Depot 
 came to say good-by. He kissed his 
 brother (who is instructing me) and 
 Captain C. and me, sajnng, "I kiss 
 America." Wasn't it a beau geste! I 
 was naturally flattered. 
 
 This letter has been interrupted by 
 the coiffeur who came to clip my wig, 
 and an hour's ride on "Deloge." The 
 countryside was exquisite in the late 
 afternoon light. We rode through fields 
 and fields of gathered golden wheat. I 
 must stop now and "clear up." 
 
 Excuse the vague composition of my 
 letters. I am always in a hurry. Free 
 moments are rare. I think of you con- 
 stantly and know you are happy know- 
 ing I am happy. 
 
 ToujourSy 
 
 E. 
 
 16 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 August 24, 1917. 
 Dear Mother — 
 
 How you would have laughed this 
 morning if you had seen your poilu shoot- 
 ing at a target for the first time — and 
 afterwards drilling with seven other sol- 
 diers. Heretofore my training has been 
 alone, and, as I say, this was my first 
 attempt with cartridges. Externally I 
 was more serious than was ever any 
 judge, but inwardly amused. I had a 
 strong sensation that you and Emily 
 and H. were sitting in the blue on a com- 
 fortable white cloud, grinning down on 
 me. However, I was too busy to look 
 up and wink. On the whole my shoot- 
 ing was successful. Of the eight "old 
 hands" who shot with me, only one did 
 better than your son. I fancy a little 
 training will make me a really decent 
 shot. My "eye" is splendid, is true, 
 but naturally my arms are not solid. 
 The detonation and the "kick" which 
 I had been led to think would be nerve- 
 racking I discovered to be nothing. I 
 17 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 fired fifty cartridges. Without any doubt 
 if I return from the war I shall become 
 a hunter and we will, each autumn, eat 
 venison and duck fresh from my gun. 
 Isn't it nice to feel my father living in 
 me again ! 
 
 Well, dear, here we are in September 
 (I write as you read) and your garden 
 is falling to dust. I feel your hot last- 
 summer days and the brown coolness 
 of the house. Almost a year since I 
 fastened my trunks and left home. And 
 it's over a month since I enlisted. Time 
 is a hustling American. By the way, 
 I'm not far from Pershing's army, and 
 next Sunday I'm invited over to hear 
 a concert arranged by my compatriots. 
 Vive la France, Vive V Ameriquel 
 
 Devotedly, 
 E. 
 
 August, 1917. 
 Cherie — 
 
 Here is a veritable festival of engines 
 of destruction and you would be amazed 
 18 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 to see me getting an insight into their 
 workings. This morning I left the house 
 at six-thirty, walked eight miles (through 
 enchanting midsummer country) to at- 
 tend a lesson on the grenade. It was 
 vastly interesting. The ground was ar- 
 ranged exactly like the lines at the 
 front — and a group of soldiers threw 
 five hundred grenades. The noise was 
 formidable but exciting. I notice that 
 the explosion has a distinct effect on 
 the blood. It rouses the circulation 
 and makes one feel like getting right 
 into the thunder. As we were the guests 
 of the Captain of the grenade throwers, 
 we were shown the various and terrible 
 varieties. One impressed me deeply. It 
 is an invention of the Boche, but now 
 used by my France. A grenade to 
 suffocate and burn the enemy. Wlien 
 the harmless little tin box touches the 
 ground it sends out a splendid thunder 
 and a gorgeous rain of blue fire that 
 burns instantly to the bone. As I 
 watched the thing in action I hadn't a 
 19 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 thought of the horror of being killed 
 by it, but, I thought, would it be possible 
 to launch it even at a Boche? Surely 
 one must feel the vastness of *'the 
 Cause" to be equal to the act. 
 
 This afternoon I fired the mitrailleuses 
 (two models) ; they work to perfection 
 and respond with an astounding ease. 
 I desire to be a good mitrailleur — it 
 requires a mental force and a clear eye 
 — and no especial physical strength. I 
 also got down on my belly and fired the 
 mitrailleur gun. This is also delightful 
 and formidable. What a pity I didn't 
 begin my life at West Point ! 
 
 You cannot imagine how kind every 
 one is to me here. And such splendid 
 men — so intelligent, so jolly and all 
 with a record of bravery behind them. 
 I am very happy and I only regret you ^ 
 are not at hand that I might tell you all 
 about it. Last night w^e heard a terrific 
 bombardment from Verdun. 
 
 Dear sister, the summer is almost 
 gone — your garden, I hope, has repaid 
 20 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 you for all your labor, and you have 
 flowers in all the rooms. I am often 
 there, I assure you — listen and you will 
 hear me — And what do you read ? 
 Each night before going to bed I listen 
 to my Captain reading Walt Whitman. 
 Later, when I am used to the novelty 
 of this life, I shall read Racine to him. 
 The gamut is sufficiently stretched, isn't 
 it.'^ marching, training with a gun, gre- 
 nades, mitrailleuses y Racine and Walt 
 Wliitman. 
 
 It is raining this twilight and one could 
 easily be homesick — but I'm happy. 
 Ton jours ct apreSy 
 
 E. 
 
 412^771^ d'Infanferie, 
 Depot Divisionnaire. 
 September 11, 1917. 
 Cherie — 
 
 The number of my regiment and my 
 
 secteur is changed, as you will notice. 
 
 The reason of this is interesting, and you 
 
 will learn it after the war. It is likely 
 
 21 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 my secteur number will change again 
 soon. Don't be surprised or worried 
 if letters are often very much delayed. 
 And remember always that, without 
 doubt, all letters to and from me are 
 read by the censors, military and civilian. 
 This is Tuesday, and on Thursday 
 last I wrote you we were awaiting orders 
 to march. The word came Saturday 
 noon and by one o'clock, under a broiling 
 sun, I was one of the thousand men to 
 be seen serpentining out of the weird 
 little village of the villa and Matisse 
 garden. I was loaded like a pack mule, 
 and, for the first four miles, wondered 
 however I should be able to stand the 
 strain. The " Ham Branch " flowed down 
 my back and Niagara fell from my brows. 
 My left shoulder was numb. Halte! 
 Sac a terre! The good Captain gives me 
 a drink of tea. I smoke a cigarette. 
 Sac au dos! The knapsack swings over 
 the shoulder. We scramble from the 
 grassy edge of the white road and are 
 marching again. 
 
 22 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 The second hour is easier — and 
 sweatier. Our smells, like our songs, 
 mount to the skies. We sing about 
 La Liberie, Le Pays and the pleasure of 
 sleeping pres de ma Blonde. "Oh, pres 
 de ma Blonde, quil fait bon dormirr 
 A corking lilt that the feet follow well. 
 It is an old song — eighteenth century 
 — and is still the favorite of the heir:; 
 of the soldiers who fought for the kings. 
 
 I am the victim of aches, fatigue, but 
 proud as a veteran as I pass the poor 
 fellows left panting by the way in the 
 shade of a dusty bush. By five o'clock 
 we are all nicely arranged in an enormous 
 train of cars. I am with our officers. 
 We eat dinner en route out of a straw 
 box. Seven o'clock we alight at S — , 
 companies are formed — sac au dos — 
 marching again into the vast face of a 
 dramatic, sulphurous sunset. The little 
 town watches us go by. The outlymg 
 country is huge and still and lonely. 
 Here and there in the middle of a field, or 
 a step from the road, a soldier's grave 
 23 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 — his flag so bloody, bloody red in the 
 strange yellow twilight. I am very tired 
 
 — the hour is solemn — impressions come 
 fast and rich. A beauty never dreamed 
 by me before comes to me out of the 
 sky — the fields — the black forest 
 masses — my comrades — my load — 
 and the tramp, tramp through the still- 
 ness. I think of many things. I think 
 of my father and mother and thank 
 God they made me a man as susceptible 
 as any. I hold it the greatest gift 
 parents can give — and mine gave it 
 me. 
 
 We pass through little towns left 
 in ruins by the Boche. We cross a 
 damp meadow and meet the night in 
 a wood — night as black as the Kaiser's 
 future. Difficulties are evidently ahead. 
 We halt half a dozen times in half an 
 hour. It is exliausting. Word finally 
 comes down the lines that we must 
 go over the foot-bridge of a river. We 
 form a single file — we creep — it is 
 terribly tiring. At last the bridge — 
 24 
 
^.V AMERICAN POILU 
 
 a mere plank only half a yard wide 
 over a deep broad river — a shaky cord 
 to hold by. A thousand men pass over, 
 and I for one, who hate the lowest 
 height, tremble like a fool. I laugh to 
 myself, thinking I might be drowned on 
 my first march. 
 
 My fatigue is intense but suffused. 
 I no longer feel my sack or gun. My feet 
 march by themselves. We have another 
 bridge — plank without cord — awful — 
 but I get by, along with my nine hundred 
 and ninety -nine comrades. 
 
 I remember we went through a street 
 of lovely lighted windows. I remember 
 the look of two sweet women standing 
 at a door, one holding a lamp, the other 
 bending down and pouring water from 
 a pitcher for crowding poihis. I shall 
 never forget the perfection of that group 
 — never. 
 
 All agree it was a hard march. Every 
 one was exhausted, my Captain very 
 much so. 
 
 The later and blacker it grew, the louder 
 25 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 our songs. I noticed that those who 
 had not sung at the start now sang for 
 the others. At ten o'clock (rest for 
 ten minutes) I was flat on my back by 
 the road looking up at a red star and 
 humming "Annie Laurie." 
 
 A little before midnight eight hundred 
 and fifty tired men fell asleep in the 
 divine straw of the great barns of S. I 
 shared the Captain's room — weird, dirty 
 room and a weird but clean bed. I was 
 so exhausted physically and so excited 
 mentally I could not sleep. The bed- 
 clothes were heavy as lead. 
 
 Day appeared at the funny window. 
 A huge bowl of coffee, a bath, and I 
 w^as "fit" enough. ^ly first march — 
 the hardest and perhaps the happiest 
 day of my life. A word spoken to aid 
 me by an unseen soldier — the timbre 
 of courageous voices — I shall never 
 forget. 
 
 Devotedly, 
 E. 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 ^l^eme Reg't. d'Infanterie, 
 Depot Divisionnaire, Secteur Postal 49. 
 
 September 22, 1917. 
 
 Cherie — 
 
 If the postman has done his duty, 
 you know that I am moved away from 
 the funny little village of the mauve 
 crocuses. (I sent you a crocus, did it 
 arrive ?) We were afoot by seven o'clock 
 (all but the Captain who was mounted 
 on a bay horse — he looked very hand- 
 some). I suppose the weather was ideal 
 for a long march — cool under a gray 
 sky — but I should have preferred sun 
 and sweat. The lack of gold on the 
 landscape — the low skies — did nothing 
 to lighten the hardness of the road and 
 the accumulating fatigue. No one sang, 
 no one laughed; hour after hour with 
 hardly a word spoken we put the left 
 before the right and covered a goodly 
 number of miles. Perhaps the weather 
 had nothing to do with the depression 
 — perhaps it was the direction of our 
 27 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 route. At two o'clock we boarded a 
 train. Our orders told us we would 
 arrive at a certain town at ten o'clock, 
 and then a marcli of ten miles would 
 bring us to our new camp. At eight 
 o'clock it set in to rain hard — no lights 
 allowed on the train. Ten miles in this 
 storm will be a jolly experience, I thought. 
 The train was late ; at midnight we were 
 *' there." A charming Commander to 
 whom I was presented — he spoke Eng- 
 lish — entered the coach and told the 
 Captain we were to sleep in the train ; 
 good news — everybody content. I 
 wrapped my capote about me and tried 
 to sleep — a painful night ; at dawn we 
 were in line and en route — a march 
 of fifteen miles through a country abso- 
 lutely worn out by war — I was tired. 
 A cup of thin wine for breakfast — my 
 feet huge with yellowish mud, my hands 
 superbly dirty — but I was solid and 
 happy. The little poilu by my side was 
 exhausted, but I kept him going by 
 giving him a cigarette from time to 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 time. We arrive — and the dream 
 deepens. A village — how can I tell 
 you about it .'^ — a village exhausted — 
 a village like a poor old man who has 
 worked too hard, all wrinkles and bones 
 
 — a village not destroyed by war, but 
 worn, beaten, consumed by the passing 
 and repassing, day and night, of an 
 army. The road is a skeleton gnawed 
 by the rolling artillery and infinite, infi- 
 nite feet. The cottages, the trees along 
 the way, are old hags, the very air seems 
 frail — weakened by the constant shock 
 from the cannon. By the meager little 
 river has been built a series of long huts 
 for the wounded — brought daily from 
 the trenches. On the dusty, dusty hillside 
 is a graveyard — monstrous, awful — with 
 huge ditches all ready and waiting for 
 their soldiers, I walked through it crying 
 
 — it is unimaginable — it is unimaginable. 
 Bombardments and gas and aeroplane 
 
 attacks are frequent ; we are forbidden 
 
 to leave the house without a mask. 
 
 Three times this morning the trumpet 
 
 29 
 
^A^ AMERICAN POILU 
 
 has sounded the approach of aerophmcs. 
 Last night I said to the Captain, "No 
 matter what happens to-night, I shall 
 not leave my bed — I'm dead tired. 
 They can try to blow the place up — but 
 I propose to sleep." Nothing happened, 
 however, but I didn't sleep. The rats 
 made such a hellish racket — a perfect 
 stampede in the refuse heap outside 
 my broken window. I had to get up 
 to see whatever they were doing ; a 
 sky fretted with stars repaid me for 
 chilling my feet on the century -old floor. 
 In the north the sudden forked lightnings 
 from the cannon. Isn't it all like a dream ? 
 A hot bath, this morning, in the erratic 
 rubber tub made me feel like an ace. 
 
 E. 
 
 412e??i<? Reg't d'Infanterie, 
 Depot Divisionnaire, Secteur Postal 49. 
 
 September 22, 1917. 
 
 Cherie — 
 
 I am getting very near to the music 
 — it sounds day and night. Already 
 30 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 I accept it as one of Nature's own voices, 
 and forget to think that each rumble 
 and bang may be the death of heroes. 
 Most of the men with whom I marched 
 from the village of crocuses left last 
 night — we only arrived at noon — for 
 the first line. I saw them trail away 
 in the green twilight and I felt a little 
 ashamed that I was not with them — 
 and a little jealous also, realizing their 
 opportunities. Poor fellows ! they were 
 tired and went away a little sad — after 
 three years of war fancy the need of 
 rest. Their route must have been dreary ; 
 this part of the country is almost one 
 continuous graveyard. I slip out of my 
 window. I cross the road. I enter the 
 awful cemetery where the soldiers liter- 
 ally sleep holding hands — their crosses 
 overlap — one bouciuet decorates three 
 graves. The disagreeable trench is al- 
 ready made for the others — the others 
 who are marching by — the others who 
 are shaking the little pears from a dusty 
 tree in the miserable meadow opposite 
 31 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 — the others who are sitting in the 
 cobwebby barns cleaning their guns — 
 the others who are scrubbing clothes 
 in the dirty river — the others who are 
 writing home. 
 
 My room would amuse you. As it 
 is the Captain's also it is probably the 
 best in the village — a sort of huge 
 cave, smelling of old cows and old pigs 
 
 — a fireplace like the black portal of a 
 cathedral — an uneven floor that can 
 never be clean — two solemn and beauti- 
 ful wardrobes side by side — two beds 
 (mine a charming one of the Empire) — 
 a clock reaching to the rafters — and 
 a chill that sends me out of the window 
 every so often to warm my feet in the 
 sun. I am very happy, Phebe, and 
 feel like Alice in Wonderland. 
 
 E. 
 
 October 1, 1917. 
 Dear Mother — 
 
 Letters drop in from all my well- 
 beloveds but never a word from you. 
 
 32 
 
^A^ AMERICAN POILU 
 
 What is the matter? I can't under- 
 stand. Some heartless eddy has doubt- 
 lessly ensnared your epistles and they 
 are piling up somewhere for me — at 
 least I hope so. 
 
 As I have told you our recent move 
 has brought us nearer the front. An 
 ugly little village nightly serenaded by 
 les avians is at present our home. I 
 can't say that I exactly like it, but then 
 I didn't enlist to like it. A night or 
 two ago we had a thunderous old time 
 and the next morning I stepped down 
 the road to take a look at the "remains." 
 Not a pleasant sight. One bomb fell 
 among a charming group of trees ; it 
 made a hole as big as a room. Near 
 by I picked up a little yellow bird whose 
 head had been cracked open by the 
 explosion. He was probably sound asleep 
 on the unlucky bough. I inclose a 
 tiny feather I pulled from his wing. 
 I pray it may bring you as near as you 
 will ever come to a bomb — unless it 
 is the kind Paris cooks make of ice 
 33 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 cream. By the way, do you still have 
 ice cream in M. ? Send me a freezer 
 full. I am hungry for ice cream — and 
 apple pie. Another month and I have 
 a permission of ten days. I can eat 
 ice cream then three times a day. 
 
 Devotedly, 
 E. 
 
 October 3, 1917. 
 Depot Divisionnaire. 
 Dear Mother — 
 
 I have been complimented — and I 
 quote it for your amusement — for you 
 know I never dreamed of receiving a 
 compliment for my marching, drilling, 
 handling a gun and all the rest. 
 
 This morning the Lieutenant who was 
 commanding the company praised me 
 for my "dash." He used the English 
 word — fancy ! And yesterday a Cap- 
 tain of another company complimented 
 my work. Captain C. turned to him 
 and explained how little training I had 
 had, and the other Captain replied, 
 34 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 *'But he was better than the others 
 this morning." 
 
 It is very amusing and thoroughly- 
 enjoyable. Three hours this morning 
 I worked like a trooper in a sham attack. 
 My body is still aching (pleasantly) 
 from the movements. It is great fun. 
 
 Wliere are your letters ? My brother 
 soldiers are to celebrate your birthday. 
 
 Devotedly, 
 E. 
 
 October 5, 1917. 
 Depot Divisionnaire. 
 Cherie — 
 
 A dark, cloudy, autumn night — nine 
 o'clock. My weird room is lighted by 
 a candle wedged into a wine bottle. 
 I'm alone — the Captain being busy 
 outside. You must have wondered about 
 the Captain. He is a very remarkable 
 man. Externally he is calm, precise, 
 elegant, reserved. Mentally lie is active, 
 just, brave and deeply intelligent. His 
 faculties are directed to his soldiers — 
 35 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 his country — he is imfaiHng. His devo- 
 tion to me is complete. Never, for a 
 single moment, has he forgotten "my 
 case" since I enlisted, and this in a 
 life busy from dawn until bedtime — 
 and often after. Last night, for example, 
 he was roused at two o'clock to sign 
 certain orders. As he has told me, he 
 is never tired when he has something 
 to do. If everj^ officer in the French 
 army was of the type of my Captain the 
 French nation would need no allies. 
 
 I have told you of his love and insight 
 regarding literary matter. We have had 
 such good half hours reading Walt Whit- 
 man and Racine. The latter has become 
 my daily companion. A spare moment 
 and Racine is in my hand. I hope you 
 will read him some day. We w^ill read 
 " Phedre " and " Athalie " together when 
 the cruel war is over and Johnny comes 
 marching home again. 
 
 At six o'clock in the morning when 
 I tumble out of bed and strap on my 
 armament for the drill — and feel a 
 36 
 
 I 
 
AN AMERICAN POILXJ 
 
 little depressed — I say to the Captain, 
 " Parlez anglais, Pierre", and he recites 
 the words he knows. He speaks them 
 so gently — it is so amusing — that I 
 begin to laugh — my lazy depression 
 vanishes — and I mount the hill in 
 martial spirits. Pray for the Captain, 
 for without him I am lost. 
 
 What are you doing this misty night ? 
 
 Tou jours, 
 E. 
 
 Sunday, October 7, 1917. 
 Depot Divisionnaire. 
 Dear Mother — 
 
 A pathetic episode in camp to-day. 
 I wonder if I can tell you about it. 
 The event was really a happy one but 
 the atmosphere about infinitely sad. 
 
 The older soldiers, after three years 
 of war, have been released from military 
 duty — sent to the rear to help the 
 cause in other ways — mending roads, 
 etc. Those (a hundred men, perhaps) 
 of our camp left this noon. I went out 
 37 
 
^iV AMERICAN POILU 
 
 to see them march away, and say good-by 
 to those I chanced to know. They 
 stood up Hke young soldiers, but they 
 were so thin and shabby and tired. The 
 Captain, with tears in his eyes, said 
 good-by to each one — shaking each 
 one by the hand. In their honor he had 
 put on his best uniform and his decora- 
 tions — a chic thing to do. "'^Gard a 
 vous!" was the order. They took their 
 best position. "'Arm a la hretelle!" that 
 is to say, "carry your gun by the strap." 
 A dehcate order, for the young soldier 
 shoulders his gun when retiring from his 
 captain. So they marched away in the 
 wet and the gray — our old soldiers ; 
 only that, but I shall remember it — 
 and my slender Captain dressed up to 
 bid them au revoir. Robin (it was 
 Robin who cleaned our shoes) was among 
 them. He was devoted to Pierre and 
 to me (as Pierre's friend) and, before 
 leaving, he called me to him and gave 
 me his funny old cane. 
 
 The simplicity and the serenity of 
 38 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 the old French poilu is very touching, and 
 you may be certain I omit no chance of 
 showing my appreciation of his destiny. 
 
 E. 
 
 October 16, 1917. 
 Cherie — 
 
 I had just finished reading your charm- 
 ing letter of September 20th when the 
 Captain came in, crying that a Boche 
 aeroplane had fallen in the fields not 
 far from the village. I had heard a lot 
 of shooting, but we are used to that sort 
 of thing; so I hadn't gone out to see 
 what might be happening and I missed 
 the chute d'Icare. But as the horses 
 were waiting for us (we had planned a 
 ride) we jumped into the saddles and 
 galloped over the midday fields to see 
 the victim. A group of soldiers from 
 a neighboring cantonment — a dozen or 
 so Americans — and surely a hundred 
 horsemen were already about the wreck. 
 It was a sorry sight which made every- 
 body happy. Huge black crosses on 
 39 
 
^A^ AMERICAN POILU 
 
 the tail covered with blood. The two 
 occupants horribly mangled. Overhead 
 proudly circled the French machine that 
 had done the good work. 
 
 Suddenly bounding over the fields 
 came a golden-red fox. The crowd set 
 up a yell of joy and the hundred horse- 
 men went tearing after the poor animal 
 — and got him. Arriving home I found 
 a pretty butterfly resting on your letter. 
 I killed him (just to be a la mode) and 
 inclose his corpse to verify my deadly 
 instincts. Probably the long journey 
 between you and me will destroy his 
 charm of purple, lilac, brown and yellow. 
 I was quite indifferent to the Boche and his 
 blood — and to the thought of Gretchen in 
 Bingen on the Rhine — but I confess to 
 feeling a ciualm while sticking the pin into 
 the butterfly. It was so pretty of him to 
 select your open letter for his resting 
 place. Cherie, we are all savages, or else 
 for a time the world is insane. 
 
 Devotedly, 
 E. 
 40 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 October 20, 1917. 
 Cherie — 
 
 The fog is over us to-night and is our 
 protection. It is so dense you can't 
 see a yard ahead. The Boche will not 
 be able to find us. The twilight was 
 very lonely — wave after wave of mist 
 came up the valley and settled about 
 the weird houses. There was a moment 
 when the village looked like a gray 
 corpse — killed by some monster who, 
 escaping, had thrown his huge, bloody 
 knife into the sky. 
 
 This new moon will bring us bombard- 
 ment, but for the next ten days at least 
 I'm to be safe in Paris. We leave 
 to-morrow afternoon, arriving in Paris 
 Monday morning before breakfast. 
 What a good time we shall have wash- 
 ing and cleaning up at our leisure! 
 For ten days I shall forget guns and 
 drilling and all the array of war and 
 simply lark it. I anticipate a good 
 time. I shall be a poilu en permission. 
 I must do my Christmas shopping — 
 41 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 what shall your present be ? I haven't 
 an idea less modest than a white satin 
 dinner gown or a Russian seal opera 
 cloak. But, ma Cherie, these are war 
 times and we mustn't overdress ! What 
 shall I buy you? A bag? No? Is 
 your bead one still good-looking? My 
 pen is light-headed to-night. I merely 
 write to say I love you. How many 
 letters have you received from me ? I've 
 written you nearly daily for a long time 
 now. But writing is such a consola- 
 tion to me. For all I'm here and "in 
 it" soul and body, I'm still an outsider. 
 I'm still the one American in the French 
 Infantry. So you see my pen is a kind 
 of wireless telephone which is constantly 
 
 ringing you up. 
 
 E. 
 
 November 3, 1917. 
 Cherie — 
 
 I've had the keenest disappointment. 
 I return from my permission expecting 
 to find letters from home and there are 
 42 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 none for me. Not a word to greet me. 
 You see, since I've joined the army I've 
 written to you or mother nearly every 
 day. It has been my greatest pleasure, 
 and somehow this has brought home 
 into my outlandish rooms and barracks. 
 You have been beside me almost every 
 hour. In Paris, en permission, caught 
 up in a cyclone of good times, I didn't 
 find a moment to write a word. By 
 some mysterious inner connection I 
 thought of you all the time as not being 
 in M. but back there "somewhere in 
 France." A subtle joy invaded me on 
 leaving Paris that I was coming back 
 to find you — and behold, I am here 
 and you are not — nor a letter either. 
 Do you understand ? Of course there 
 are steamers filled with your manu- 
 scripts sailing toward me. I realize it, 
 but it was a shock not to find at least 
 a word waiting on my table. It was 
 something like arriving at S. Street, 
 after the war, only to discover the 
 house cold — vacant. 
 43 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 " * Is there anybody there ? ' asked the 
 traveler 
 Knocking at the moonlit door." 
 
 Well, the permission is over. Its rapid- 
 ity is baffling and illogical. It doesn't 
 seem possible that ten days could go 
 so swiftly. I didn't have time to turn 
 around. Like a poor gamin who has 
 found a ticket for the theater, I sat for 
 a dizzy hour in the light and splendor 
 and then was run out into mud, rain 
 and blackness. Mud, rain and black- 
 ness tells the tale exactly, both as to 
 weather and my morale. To-day has 
 been a nightmare inside and outside. 
 I'm lonely, I'm lost, but, thank God, I've 
 the priceless gift of moods and to-morrow 
 without doubt will find me happy as 
 
 a dozen larks. 
 
 A toi, 
 
 E. 
 
 November 9, 1917. 
 Cherie — 
 
 There is no use — it remains a dream 
 — the whole detour. And to-day it is 
 44 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 dreamiest. I can make no reality out 
 of it. This November village drenched 
 in rain and mist — zigzag houses half 
 in ruins — these crooked trees — sand- 
 bag roofs of shelters under a camouflage 
 of dead branches — low barracks — cam- 
 ions driving in the mud, their canvas 
 coverings painted like stage drops. At 
 night the skeleton lights signaling over 
 the hills — the whine of shells — the 
 explosions and the echo. Does that 
 sound real, I ask you ? 
 
 'On the long marches (I love them), 
 at drill or target shooting, I feel somnam- 
 bulistic. My little dog Tray does not 
 bark. Last July I thought the soldier's 
 life would solidify the earth under my 
 feet, but it has made it more an air 
 cushion than ever. The dream rain 
 falls on the dream roof. Well — I can- 
 not help it. My head, my left side to 
 France if need be and willingly, but my 
 last fancy to whatever wind that blows. 
 The tree to the lumberman but never 
 the birds. They twirl aside, they drift. 
 45 
 
^A^ AMERICAN POILU 
 
 Cherie, do you find my letters vague, 
 unimportant? Wiat do you care to 
 hear from me of the pitiable Russian 
 slump, Nicholas, Rasputin, Kerensky and 
 Co., or of Italy's black eye (tremble 
 for Venice) or the last fall of Gaza? 
 Your papers are filled with Uncle Sam 
 and his army. I send you what is 
 integral of myself. My helmet, my thick 
 shoes are on the warpath. I am over 
 the hills and God knows where. I met 
 a brave soldier who told me he hadn't 
 a sensation when he went over the top. 
 I'm sure I shall have one — that of 
 the uttermost of dreams. Is it a gift — 
 a curse? I don't know. C'est moi. 
 
 E. 
 
 412^mc Reg'f d'Infanterie, 
 Jf£me Compagnie, Secteur 49. 
 
 November 12, 1917. 
 Clierie — 
 
 A Boche plane overhead trying to 
 take our picture — our cannon making 
 a hell of a racket shooting at her. They 
 46 
 
^A^ AMERICAN POILU 
 
 come by daylight to make their studies, 
 returning after dark to do the dirty 
 work. I've told you how unpleasant 
 that is. 
 
 Cherie, look up the valley — 'tis late 
 afternoon — and admire the amethyst 
 drapery. It floats around the November 
 trees — the sky wanes. "La nuit est 
 la, comme une Jemme qui mendie.'" The 
 valley has become my art treasure, 
 my theater, my cinema — it performs 
 hourly. This morning when I got out 
 of my box it was shy and secretive, 
 showing merely the thin tops of the 
 few trees. Later, the white mist crept 
 up its sides and disappeared into the 
 woods. The grass by the stream was 
 green as April. The sun made it shine 
 — now it withdraws in lilac tints and 
 *'/a nuit est la, comme une femme qui 
 mejidic.'' This lovely line of poetry 
 the Captain brought back from his per- 
 mission; a friend told it to him — he 
 told it to me. We have repeated it a 
 thousand times while thinking and doing 
 47 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 unpoetical jobs. Haven't you often seen 
 the night come into a room like a woman 
 timidly begging entrance ? 
 
 We read "things" in the papers and 
 we say — "How dreadful that must have 
 been", but the mind cannot conceive 
 how dreadful a "dreadful thing" is. 
 With my, as yet, little experience I have 
 learned that it isn't the dying or the 
 wounds ; it's the live flesh recoiling as it 
 goes forward toward the "thing." Do 
 you notice how much I use the word 
 "thing"? It denotes the indescribable 
 — whether it be beautiful or awful — 
 the thing I 
 
 But I am not writing my letter — I 
 can't seem to get on the track. I took 
 my pen to tell you of my trip to Verdun. 
 Perhaps I'm frightened to begin — it 
 made such a ghoulish impression — an 
 episode in the dream when one screams 
 and wakes up crying. 
 
 We motored, as guests of a Comman- 
 dant and another Captain. We entered 
 the nightmare in the early afternoon. As 
 48 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 I wrote H., my ink is too white to convey- 
 to you my sensations as I walked through. 
 I felt as though my head were dead and 
 I was looking out of rotten eyes. I felt 
 like an idiot with my mouth hanging open 
 and my tongue lolling out. Nothing I 
 had ever thought or read looked like 
 Verdun. I didn't dream there was so 
 much hate in the world. Street after 
 street of crazy houses, churches, libraries, 
 cafes, palaces, shops, theaters, meat mar- 
 kets : a city in ruin — not cleared away 
 by fire, but standing like a circus of 
 lepers ; and so still — not a hint of life, 
 not a ghost left even — nothing but 
 destruction — hollow, toppling, murky. 
 A city knocked senseless by thousands 
 and thousands of blows. A few years 
 since Verdun was one of the loveliest 
 cities of France, the Venice of the North, 
 serenely terraced by the Meuse. Out- 
 side the w^alls we entered the Citadel, 
 a huge city of soldiers a hundred feet 
 underground. I felt I was in the New 
 York subway — vast corridors, vast 
 49 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 dormitories, vast dining rooms, chapel, 
 theater, etc., etc. The Commandant in- 
 vited us to drink champagne, and in 
 the electric-hghted bowels of the earth 
 we lifted our glasses a la Victoire. 
 
 To find the motor we returned through 
 the city ; it was no more hideous in 
 the obscurity than an hour earlier. Ver- 
 dun ! — the Bodies didn't get it — "on 
 ne passe pas — on ne passe pas^' — a 
 symbol forever of resistance, of splendor, 
 of the forces that are more ferocious 
 than death. We came home over a 
 road lighted by cannon glare — Verdun. 
 Toujours, Cherie, toujours, 
 
 E, 
 
 4<12eme Reg't d'Infanterie, 
 4 Compagnie, Secteur 49. 
 
 November 17, 1917. 
 
 Cherie — 
 
 To-day the Captain had an errand 
 
 among a neighboring troop of x\lgerians. 
 
 I went with him. The camp is in a 
 
 wood. Late afternoon and getting glim- 
 
 50 
 
^A^ AMERICAN POILU 
 
 mery. I wait in the muddy path. The 
 scene is beautiful. I think of you. An 
 autumn forest — bronzy and garnet, rus- 
 set, cinnamon, rouge. Standmg about 
 a huge can, paring potatoes — a great 
 pile of them on the ground — is a group 
 of Arabs. Others lean against trees (their 
 uniforms are the color of the bark). 
 By the doors of the barracks groups are 
 singing. The trees are very tall and 
 very still. It is chilly. Just that, and 
 the night insinuating — it seems to gather 
 into a picture — an old master — warm 
 shadow, tinge, just felt gold, and the 
 removing touch as though it were pre- 
 cious and unperishable. I saw it. I 
 thought of you. To-night my uniform 
 smells good — as after hanging on a tree 
 for a day. I have something from the 
 November leaf, bough, vista. It puts 
 me back there — under the tall trees — 
 so I write it home to you. Do you think 
 it too slight a pretext.? It is quite 
 natural. I'm following a track — a 
 splendid one, but thousands have found 
 51 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 it fatal, and daily I'm obsessed — as 
 though something inside, in spite of me,- 
 were saying good-by — to communicate, 
 to attach myself to you — to home. 
 I would squeeze my heart into your 
 hands, drop by drop. It is the heart, 
 I believe, that remembers. I must tell, 
 tell something. I must make a mark 
 on the wall. So I write. 
 
 Devotedly, 
 E. 
 
 November 26, 1917. 
 Cherie — 
 
 The Captain and I have just come in 
 from a tour around the cantonment, 
 inspecting the rolling kitchens. An in- 
 teresting sight, these stoves on wheels — 
 with the stew inside. The cook, a huge 
 fork in his dirty hands, stands near by 
 and the crowd of pathetic poilus gather 
 around with their cups and pails. ^Vhen 
 the stove door is opened golden spots 
 break out over everything; even the 
 mud (the mud here is grotesque) shows 
 52 
 
^A^ AMERICAN POILU 
 
 a bright eye. Captain Pete takes a 
 look at the meat, talks of the potatoes 
 and the amount of sugar in the tea. 
 I watch and have a little vision : sud- 
 denly, behind the backs of these dreary, 
 muddy, homesick soldiers, I see the 
 treasures of Paris — the Venus from 
 Milo — the rose windows of Notre Dame 
 — the golden galleries of the Louvre — 
 the gardens and avenues, quiet, sunny, 
 leafy — all the splendors seeking safety, 
 and finding it behind these little crowd- 
 ing soldiers waiting for their pail of 
 supper. Cherie, it is visions like this 
 that keep me going. 
 
 Well, Pete pronounces all is well and 
 we go out of the shed, and walk up the 
 hill toward the west. It is cold — an 
 unearthly light on the slopes — and a 
 star as big and calm as a cow is tethered 
 in a faint green pasture. The north is 
 black. We stop to admire the cow — 
 rain on our faces — down the hill to 
 the chalet vert. Before we arrive our 
 coats are white with snow. 
 53 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 I've stepped out since to see, and 
 behold the moon on duty ! Snow here 
 is only make-believe. 
 
 Good-night, 
 E. 
 
 December 6, 1917. 
 Cherie — 
 
 Last night I wrote you a letter in 
 which I quoted a poem of Walt Whit- 
 man (my great friend these days), and 
 I left the book open on my table. This 
 morning (I've nothing to do) my eye 
 falls on the next poem, which is so beauti- 
 ful and so good to remember these days 
 that I copy it for us both. (You can- 
 not hear and feel the bombardment I 
 hear and feel as I write.) 
 
 *'How solemn as one by one, 
 
 As the ranks returning worn and 
 sweaty, as the men file by where 
 I stand, 
 As the faces the masks appear, as I 
 glance at the faces studying the 
 masks 
 
 54 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 (As I glance upward out of this page 
 studying you, dear friend who- 
 ever you are). 
 
 How solemn the thought of my whis- 
 pering soul to each in the ranks, 
 and to you, 
 
 I see behind each mask that wonder, a 
 kindred soul. 
 
 O the bullet could never kill what 
 you really are, dear friend, 
 
 Nor the bayonet stab what you really 
 are. 
 
 The soul ! yourself I see, great as any, 
 good as the best, 
 
 Waiting secure and content, which the 
 bullet could never kill. 
 
 Nor the bayonet stab, O friend." 
 
 You must excuse me if I copy poetry 
 into my letters; idle moments come, 
 and shouldering a gun doesn't change 
 a man ; besides I like the idea of a French 
 poilu sending back to America the poems 
 of the Civil War. It touches my fancy. 
 It proves that we do not live by bread 
 alone. 
 
 Devotedly, 
 
 E, 
 55 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 December 10, 1917. 
 Dear Mother — 
 
 It is black night here. The church 
 clock is sounding six. A high wind is 
 tearing overhead. The green chalet 
 creaks like a ship at sea. My face is 
 still red and burning from my afternoon 
 on the hill. I've been shooting. You 
 will be amused to hear that I've the 
 hardest work to get anybody to criticize 
 me. Everybody is so nice, so polite. 
 I think the next time I shall shoot wildly 
 into the air like Colonel Cody, just to 
 see if an officer will say, "Come, come, 
 that's not the way to shoot." I think 
 French people have an idea we Americans 
 are born with a rifle in our mouth and 
 a couple of carving knives in our hands, 
 consequently, we can't go wrong before 
 a target. This amuses and disconcerts 
 me very much. To-morrow we are to 
 work with an English machine gun. 
 Eighteen hundred bullets a minute is 
 the record. You can imagine the effect 
 56 
 
^A^ AMERICAN POILU 
 
 a half dozen of these guns would have on 
 a regiment of soldiers. But of course 
 both sides know this, so before advancing 
 their men they try, by cannon, to destroy 
 the machine gun. I've taken apart and 
 put together a Hotchkiss machine gun 
 so many times I could perform the trick 
 in the pitch dark, which, the Captain 
 tells me, is a military asset. 
 
 But why do I write all this to you? 
 I don't know unless it is to bring you as 
 close as possible to my weird days. War 
 and weapons are so fantastic. 
 
 Devotedly, 
 E. 
 
 December 20, 1917. 
 Cherie — 
 
 Perhaps I'm too cold to tell you of 
 my yesterday, but I'll try. With seven 
 officers I went to Verdun (bitterly cold) 
 to a funeral. 
 
 A month ago there came to the Depot 
 a lieutenant — a young man — a nice 
 chap. He only stayed three or four 
 57 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 days and was called to the front. A 
 week ago at night he and a sergeant 
 were trying to cut a path through the 
 barbed wire six or seven yards away 
 from the Boches, in order that his men, 
 at dawn, might make a coup de main. 
 An heroic thing to attempt — and he 
 was shot (the sergeant also) in the hip, 
 the bullet shattering the bone. By a 
 miracle his men got to him and he w^as 
 brought dying to the hospital "La Glo- 
 rieuse" just near Verdun. Yesterday he 
 was buried. The service was rapid but 
 very impressive. 
 
 We enter the impromptu chapel — 
 a room in the rough, overworked hospital 
 — helmet in hand. The chapel is in 
 semi-darkness. Before the childish altar, 
 guarded by three immobile soldiers, lies 
 the box covered by his flag. A little 
 white cushion at the head holds his 
 two decorations — Croix de Guerre, Le- 
 gion d'Honneur — the latter having been 
 given him ten minutes before he died. 
 The officers — his General (I am beside 
 58 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 my Captain) — stand back a little. 
 Every five minutes, of course, the win- 
 dows rattle to a bombardment not far 
 away. The priest comes and, hurriedly, 
 reads the burial service. The solemnity 
 of the box dominates. We follow, heads 
 bare, the wagon to the cemetery. It 
 isn't far. The landscape is white and 
 cold. It is very beautiful. Fifteen thou- 
 sand little crosses on a hillside. Three 
 or four boxes unburied. Row after row 
 of holes — waiting. The earth turned 
 out this morning is a soft chocolate 
 color. By the grave his Captain tells 
 how he was killed. Les adieux supreme. 
 One of the officers — a captain — who came 
 with us weeps like a dear friend. The 
 priest and the officers sprinkle the box with 
 holy water. The cscouade that marched by 
 the wagon, guns trailing, presents arms. 
 
 Coming home, the Captain, who cried, 
 said, — "Ah, Picton was a fine fellow, 
 one could talk Chinese with him." 
 
 Devotedly, 
 E. 
 59 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 December 24, 1917. 
 Cherie — 
 
 The Captain says — he looks over my 
 shoulder — this is a triste picture to send 
 home, but I feel differently. My land- 
 scape having been dotted with mounds like 
 this one (covered by the snow they look 
 like birthday cakes), I've come to feel 
 quite happy and friendly about them. 
 
 This is Christmas eve and bitterly 
 cold. I've been with two American 
 officers all the afternoon. We talked 
 *' weapons" and watched a sham attack. 
 One was a colonel, the other was a 
 captain — perhaps they were frozen 
 (everybody was), perhaps merely stupid. 
 I couldn't decide. Of course the situa- 
 tion is very difficult for the American 
 officer who doesn't speak French. And, 
 as I say, the battlefield was Siberian. 
 Our demonstration was over by four 
 o'clock. We walked down the hill. A 
 fine snow began to fall. Our path, 
 through a wood, down the fields, led us 
 by a group of little graves quite like 
 60 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 the one I've pictured. To-night the 
 thousands of merry soldiers making 
 Christmas under the snow ! "Come fast 
 and thick, little snowflakes, muffle from 
 us, who are doomed to live a century, 
 the music of their hilarity ; hide from 
 us their ruby goblets, their knowing 
 winks, their friendly nudges." 
 
 Later (after dinner) I was interrupted 
 by the appearance of a petit Adjudant 
 come to invite the Captain and Monsieur 
 H. to step into the officers' mess room 
 before dinner to drink a toast. We went 
 — it was charming, touching even. 
 Eighteen rosy-faced men gathered around 
 a narrow festive table. A huge turkey 
 was broiling over the fire — it smelt good. 
 Our glasses were lifted to La Belle 
 France. It was decorated and gay and 
 smiling — but, I fancy, not a patch 
 beside the jovial splendors of their com- 
 rades, out in the fields, snug under the 
 snow, celebrating Christmas eve. 
 
 Devotedly, 
 
 E. 
 61 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 December 26, 1917. 
 Cherie — 
 
 In a recent letter you inquire about 
 the briquet marked "Verdun", and ask 
 if I bought it there. Cherie, you could no 
 more buy a briquet in Verdun than you 
 could buy a fan in a cemetery ! You 
 might risk your neck and climb up into 
 a tottering house and pillage a broken 
 mirror or a rain-soaked book — but you 
 couldn't buy anything in Verdun. There 
 is no one there to take your money. We 
 wandered through the Bishop's Palace 
 (not a ceiling intact) and took a worthless 
 book from a repulsive heap on the library 
 floor. Verdun is a hell of ruins. 
 
 No, the briquet is made from a socket 
 of a cartridge, by some clever poilu 
 in an idle moment — in one of the sectors 
 near Verdun. He gave it to an Ameri- 
 can ambulance driver, who gave it to 
 me. 
 
 It's touching and amusing the way 
 soldiers occupy themselves in spare times. 
 62 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 I write letters and, lately, draw pictures 
 for you. I remember seeing a clumsy 
 poilu painfully making his sweetheart's 
 name on a sheet of paper by carefully 
 inserting (it was early September) the 
 yellow petals of some wild flower. He 
 sat in a doorway and worked as though 
 Victory was at stake. 
 
 Paris is flooded with "rings" and 
 briquets — the distraction of the poilus' 
 empty hours. 
 
 Man is a simple, painstaking child; 
 it's the inflated hogs that set him fight- 
 ing. 
 
 Our world is made of snow and moon- 
 light. 
 
 Devotedly, 
 
 E. 
 
 December 30, 1917. 
 Cherie — 
 
 We're ordered South — just where no 
 one as yet knows — but we're breaking 
 camp — our knapsacks are packed — 
 and to-morrow we depart. 
 63 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 Good-by, little valley, you've been 
 a charming comrade. Good-by, poor 
 little ruined village of snowy roofs and 
 twisted apple boughs. Good-by, green 
 chalet. Good-by, miserable stove. 
 Good-by to the sunrises over the wood 
 
 — to the mammoth star each sundown 
 in the west. While I live I'll remember 
 this village for the valley that ran away 
 from it and the star that hung over it. 
 Doubtlessly Venus will come with us, 
 but I shall always think of her here — 
 gold over the green chalet. 
 
 God knows what awaits us south — 
 perhaps a real house — perhaps shops 
 and cafes and a thousand natural charms 
 
 — perhaps everything quite otherwise 
 
 — ugly and cold. But I'm not worry- 
 ing. The uncertainty pleases me. I 
 should think soldiering would, after a 
 year or two, make every poilu a sort 
 of Wandering Jew. I begin to under- 
 stand the hired trooper of old — the 
 soldier of fortune — who lived to fight 
 and fought for the fun of it — going no 
 
 64 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 matter where — now east, now west, 
 or north or south, and finally to adven- 
 tures in hell. (Just like the stay-at- 
 home !) But in those days they didn't 
 have to face the "curtain of fire", the 
 gas, or the aeroplane bombs. Times 
 have changed. War was quite "nice" 
 in the sixteenth century. I fancy my 
 "bit" will be all I care to meet. Here's 
 hoping, Cherie, I do that bit bravely 
 and come home victorious — along with 
 my brothers in khaki. 
 
 Happier New Year, 
 E. 
 
 January 3, 1918. 
 ^^ Somewhere else in France.'* 
 Cherie — 
 
 I'm just about as uncomfortable as 
 I can be. I wrote you in my last letter 
 we were about to change our canton- 
 ment. That letter bore the date of 
 December 30th. We were out of bed 
 the next morning at three o'clock. I 
 felt fresh and gay. The hubbub of 
 65 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 starting is always exciting. It wasn't 
 cold — the moon, although hidden, suf- 
 fused a vague light over our world. We 
 drank hot coffee and at five-thirty took 
 to the open road. The station from 
 which we were to embark was fifteen 
 miles away. We reached it a little 
 after nine. I was warm and happy — the 
 slight pain in my legs being nothing to 
 speak of. The station was no station 
 at all — only a bleak track running 
 betw^een a windy field and a windy ceme- 
 tery. We waited there until four o'clock 
 — a real torture. However, I shall re- 
 member a pretty picture or two — a 
 group of soldiers crouching over a tiny 
 blaze of sticks (they had brought them 
 on their backs) and another group load- 
 ing the warm colored loaves of bread — 
 hundreds of them — into a car. There 
 was a thunder in the gray air from 
 the eleven hundred men stamping their 
 freezing feet. The train pulled away 
 at four o'clock — it was fast growing 
 dark. A perfectly miserable night — 
 66 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 cold, cold, cold. Everybody suffered. 
 At five o'clock in the morning — New 
 Year's Day — we piled out into the 
 falling snow of our somewhere else in 
 France. We waited and waited and 
 waited (a nice poilu treated me to a cup 
 of coffee). The day came up in a glory 
 of rose and yellow, A charming old 
 city awoke around us — my tired eyes 
 admired in every direction — I felt sud- 
 denly glad. The plantain trees in the 
 square seemed enormously tall and un- 
 real. The houses along the river jum- 
 bled together, snowy and lovely. Over 
 a wall I saw a garden with marble 
 statues. The steeple bellowed out a 
 jangle of bells. At the ends of all the 
 twisting streets, hills covered with vine- 
 yards. iVt ten o'clock our barrack was 
 found — at half-past ten I was slipping 
 off my luggage in the Captain's room. 
 We are lodged chez a wine merchant, in 
 what I should call his "cold room." 
 The bed is superb — God be praised 
 — the stove is a porcelain joke — my 
 67 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 compliments to the Devil who made it. 
 We lack fuel, and as everybody is busy 
 getting settled there are no exercises, 
 so I'm left to freeze. Something that 
 amazes me very much is the difficulty 
 the poor soldier has in finding a place 
 to live. No one is ready to let him in — 
 and when his Captain forces the situa- 
 tion, it is always chez les pauvres. The 
 well-to-do houses will not open their 
 doors — and he is suffering for La Belle 
 France. This is a large, prosperous city, 
 and yet eleven hundred of its country- 
 men arrive here in the cruel winter 
 dawn and not a single person is on hand 
 to offer a cup of coft'ee or a warm corner. 
 I cannot understand it — the strange 
 selfishness in the world is awful. We 
 are aching for firewood, yet no one 
 seems to dream of cutting down one of 
 the handsome plantain trees — why not, 
 I wonder.'^ Human life is the cheapest 
 thing in the world. 
 
 While writing this letter Boutrais (the 
 Captam's valet and our friend) had 
 68 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 brought in an armful of wood — the 
 gift of the wine merchant's wife ; the 
 stove — it is as formidable as Grant's 
 tomb — is lighted and when it is through 
 heating itself, it will, if any wood is 
 left, heat us. Remembering my com- 
 rades in the straw, I'm duly thankful 
 to the wine merchant's wife. Let me 
 recall that the first week in a canton- 
 ment is always a difficult time — later, 
 I may be quite happy and comfortable 
 here — and find time and spirit to write 
 you as heretofore. Meanwhile we are 
 in the New Year. What will 1918 bring 
 to us — to you — to me ? La Paix, I 
 hope — a home-coming and the good 
 old times again. The day after to- 
 morrow makes me thirty-six — what bet- 
 ter could I be doing than trying to help 
 my brothers — myself — through this old 
 valley of tears.? I'm uncomfortable but 
 I'm happy — 
 
 Devotedly, 
 
 E. 
 
 69 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 January 19, 1918. 
 Cherie — 
 
 I'm ready to take a bath with any- 
 body, a horse even, provided the water 
 is hot. It's over three weeks since I 
 saw enough hot water to scrub all over 
 in. I'm tired of rubbing 'round with 
 a face cloth. How dirty I shall be next 
 week ! The order is come we are to 
 leave here in thirty-six hours, and march 
 for six days. I shall feel like a side 
 show in a circus doing one-day stands. 
 The world is groaning, but I look for- 
 ward to the strain with pleasure. The 
 weather is mild, the snow and ice gone, 
 my shoes are thick ; what terrors has 
 a six-days' tramp for me ? I shall be 
 sorry to leave here. I'm just beginning 
 to discover the beauty of this "some- 
 where in France." It is indeed a mar- 
 velous landscape. In its summer clothes 
 it must be unsurpassable. 
 
 A day or two ago Pete and I walked 
 some half dozen miles and I saw valleys 
 70 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 and wooded hills and vistas I shall 
 never forget. One little hamlet has left 
 a painting on the wall of my memory 
 as though I were the Louvre and it my 
 masterpiece. I would need be a poet 
 to tell you how it lay in the vase of the 
 russet hills. Its houses were pink and 
 lemon, and regarded themselves in a 
 river shaded like a peacock's tail. I 
 forgot I was a fire-breathing soldier and 
 thought myself some traveler in the 
 land of romance. "Oft have I traveled 
 in the lands of gold — " but this corner 
 was wine-color and peacock and lemon 
 and rose. 
 
 Devotedly, 
 E. 
 
 January 23, 1918. 
 Dear Mother — 
 
 I begin my letter in the style of our 
 Benjamin Franklin. Never cross a bridge 
 until you come to it — for ninety-nine 
 times out of a hundred when you come 
 to the river the bridge will be stronger 
 71 
 
^iV AMERICAN POILU 
 
 and less unpleasant than you could have 
 imagined. 
 
 Behold your poilu on the second day 
 of our long march, feeling like Buffalo 
 Bill and Jack Johnson rolled into one. 
 We left the gray town of the Chateau 
 yesterday morning before seven o'clock. 
 It was pitch dark. Over hill and dale, 
 carrying our house on our back, we 
 marched until noon, when we arrived 
 in a weird Emily Bronte sort of a village, 
 lately inhabited by a company of Ameri- 
 can soldiers. 
 
 An hour later the cook produced an 
 excellent hot luncheon, and after eating 
 I was free to go to bed, which I did, sleep- 
 ing like a judge or the lazy "Beauty" 
 in the fairy tale until purple eve. Awak- 
 ening, I found I had lost the aches in 
 my legs and shoulders. Pete was shav- 
 ing — I shaved — and we went up the 
 hill to dinner. The popote was in a 
 house as old and solid and forlorn as 
 Wuthering Heights. The rooms vast 
 and in a state of incalculable clutter. 
 72 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 Little boys and girls seemed to be going 
 to bed in every dark corner. I wasn't 
 surprised at all to encounter Americans 
 there — a young lieutenant and three 
 soldiers. The officer was pleased to see 
 any one from home, especially in a 
 French uniform, and begged me to sit 
 by his stove for an hour after dinner. 
 I did so with pleasure. He is a Yale 
 boy of the "right sort", feeling very 
 lonely so far from New Haven. We 
 talked war and weapons and I felt like 
 a veteran of 1870. At nine o'clock, 
 he lighted me through the Bronte village 
 to my lodging. "The pleasantest even- 
 ing I've had since being in France," he 
 said. 
 
 "Good-night, good luck, Lieuten- 
 ant S." 
 
 I had difficulty pushing open the 
 door, and when I got inside a funny old 
 woman in a nightcap (I could see by the 
 candle) stuck lier head out of a bed 
 in the wall and bade me turn the key. 
 The room had a vast fireplace, and from 
 73 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 the rafters hung the huge sides of a red 
 pig. I said "Bon soir" to Madame 
 and her pig, and went up the dangerous 
 stairs to our room — a perfect Bronte 
 chamber — one entire wall of cupboards. 
 I opened some — strange treasure boxes 
 covered in old style colored paper — dried 
 bouquet of mistletoe tied with yellow 
 ribbon — dresses old as the wainscot 
 and not especially good to smell — 
 basques turned outside in, showing any 
 amount of whalebone. The bed was 
 billowy and draped by a chintz canopy. 
 The Captain was asleep. Being on the 
 outside edge, I was first to respond to 
 the four o'clock alarm. We drank bowls 
 of coffee at Wuthering Heights and are 
 on the black road by five-thirty. Pete 
 is on his horse. He gallops ahead. I 
 will make the road with some fifty men 
 sent in advance to prepare the canton- 
 ment. I march between an adjutant 
 and a sergeant. We are en tete — we 
 are all long-legged and we set a merry 
 pace. Day came over the fields as 
 74 
 
^A^ AMERICAN POILU 
 
 sweetly as a blond child. At eight 
 o'clock we see a church steeple standing 
 up in the farther meadows. Down a 
 splendid hill, singing, and we enter the 
 new village. It is new to us, but the 
 moon has known it for seven hundred 
 years or more. The Captain, who thinks 
 I have a cold, turns up and leads me 
 into a queer house where I buy a bowl 
 of delicious hot milk. Quarters are found 
 for the men, and at nine o'clock the 
 regiment marches in, gun on the shoulder 
 — a chic sight. 
 
 This room is made splendid by its 
 fire. There are two high beds — the 
 window is dripping rain. In the ad- 
 joining "piece" there's a little pink 
 pig in a tub. He squeals ! Napoleon 
 III stands beside a headless Saint on 
 the mantle. The night-tables are so 
 narrow and the pots so wide you can 
 hardly get the latter out or in. 
 
 The Sammies left here last week and 
 the village youngsters are wearing their 
 silly hats — the army is to discard the 
 75 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 sombrero, I'ra told. In the ashes, I 
 found letters from Taunton to "Herb." 
 His mother wrote him to be a good boy. 
 Herb had forgotten his little Bible with 
 Wilson's recommendation on the front 
 page. 
 
 After luncheon (stewed rabbit) the 
 Commandant, Pete and I inspected the 
 church. It was born in the 11th cen- 
 tury. It contains the brilliant and child- 
 like tomb of Saint Florentin, and a series 
 of naive paintings telling of his awful 
 temptations and how he overcame them. 
 In one picture he is the center of a group 
 of lovely ladies, richly dressed ; in the 
 next only the dresses are lovely — the 
 ladies' teeth have become like those in 
 sharks' mouths and their hands are 
 long green claws. Comparing the two 
 paintings, it was evident, as far as Saint 
 Florentin was concerned, the ladies had 
 gone to a great deal of trouble for noth- 
 ing — you simply can't please some peo- 
 ple is the moral, I presume. 
 
 Well, dear, the length of this letter 
 76 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 shows you the first and second days of 
 our long journey haven't exhausted me. 
 To-morrow we rest ; as a matter of 
 fact the regiment isn't in training for 
 a sudden marching test (France is tired) 
 so for the start it has been intelligently 
 arranged not to kill us. The last four 
 days are bound to be strenuous ; how- 
 ever, as Mr. Franklin says, etc., etc. 
 
 My letter stops simply because my 
 pen is weary. Give kisses and love to 
 your world. 
 
 Devotedly, 
 E. 
 
 412e//ie Re(/t cVInfanterie, 
 ieme Compagnie, Secteur 49. 
 
 January 31, 1918. 
 
 Dear Mother — 
 
 My last letter told you of the first 
 two days of our long march. When I 
 wrote we were resting for twenty-four 
 
 hours in the town where the mild ^ 
 
 is buried. Now I will try to take you 
 
 ^ Censored. 
 77 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 along the rest of the route. It is not 
 easy to remember in detail. The week 
 merges into a confusion of charming 
 towns, moonlit roads, changing land- 
 scapes, queer lodgings, weird inns and 
 alternating sensations of exhaustion and 
 repose. I recall putting your St. Floren- 
 tin letter into its envelope and almost 
 immediately after putting myself into 
 bed, where I slept until Pete's little 
 alarm turned us out somewhere in the 
 neighborhood of four o'clock. ^Ye had, 
 as is our habit, arranged everything 
 the night before, so, in no time, we were 
 in uniform and waiting on the bridge 
 for the order to march. The morning 
 air was cold and in the valleys clouds 
 of snowj'' mist. I was glad I had on 
 Margaret's sweater — however, I could 
 have dispensed with it after an hour's 
 marching and singing. We climbed a 
 hill and met the sun on the top. Our 
 journey was eastward, so he stayed on 
 our helmets until nearly noon. (To be 
 exact, I should write faces for helmets.) 
 78 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 The day was magnificent — like a tenor 
 voice — the fields rolling and larks singing 
 as in April. We marched up and down, 
 on and on, through half a hundred for- 
 gotten hamlets. The old dames and the 
 girls smile in the doorways as we go by. 
 In one town was stationed a regiment 
 of Sammies. A company lined up along 
 the main street and whistled a march 
 to our tread. Wilson's soldiers are im- 
 pressively lanky. I don't believe there's 
 a hip in his whole army. I was amused 
 to be asked by several of my comrades 
 what the Americans meant by whistling 
 at us. "A compliment," I answered; 
 "they didn't whistle at us but for us." 
 In France you only whistle at a man in 
 derision. However, the Sammies whistled 
 so beautifully I fancy the point wasn't 
 lost by the poilus. Every fifty minutes 
 a signal is given. We make a double 
 column facing the road, stack our guns, 
 as you have seen them in pictures, slip 
 off the sack — and we are free for ten 
 minutes to eat, drink, etc., etc. It is 
 79 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 amazing — the restorative power of ten 
 minutes. Pete always insists I eat some- 
 thing — and has never forgotten (his 
 orderly carries it) to supply me with 
 chicken, eggs, bread, etc. ; I carry my 
 own bidon of thin wine. At each stop- 
 ping place, the poilu pulls out his huge 
 round loaf of bread and eats a generous 
 hunk. Often lie opens a little can of 
 sardines, or *' singe", as he calls beef. 
 We are quite like a big family of boys — 
 each shares with the other. I've never 
 seen a stingy gesture. The poilu is 
 surely touched by divinity. I've seen 
 him so, so tired, watched his back stoop- 
 ing gradually forward under the weight 
 of the precious sack — some one starts 
 a song, we all join in and the pace 
 quickens. The poilu is surely touched 
 by divinity. I have heard it in his voice 
 and seen it in his eye. 
 
 At noon we crossed a bridge. The 
 
 river was pure and shallow. The journey 
 
 is ended for the day. We are in the 
 
 birthplace of miracles and mystery — 
 
 SO 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 it is ^ country. I'm as tired as I've 
 
 never been before — I feel parched and 
 thin. The town of that day's canton- 
 ment had a ^ and our bedroom was 
 
 very Hke a neglected tomb, chez sl neg- 
 lected old crone, who said she was al- 
 ways amiable, and indeed the poor old 
 body was — doing what she could for 
 us in the way of clean sheets, hot water, 
 and early next morning giving us bowls 
 of coffee. I'm sure her coffee pot was 
 a horror, but her act was patriotic and 
 a soldier asks for nothing more. As I 
 say, I was dog tired and believed I should 
 never walk again, except under military 
 orders, but a change of shoes and a good 
 luncheon set me up sufficiently to follow 
 Pete across the meadow^s (two miles) 
 
 to take a look at .^ As usual with 
 
 birthplaces, it was disappointing — both 
 church and house being Ixidly "done 
 over" — but I was vaguely pleased to 
 see the soil of the land that had produced 
 so remarkable a young lady as Miss .^ 
 
 ^ Censored. 
 
 81 
 
^A^ AMERICAN POILU 
 
 On the lonely hillside where she is sup- 
 posed to have seen the ^ was tend- 
 ing her sheep when they appeared, a 
 church has been built possessing all 
 the faults of modern religious archi- 
 tecture. 
 
 The following day I shall remember 
 for its mountainous roads and our vivid 
 descents into valleys floating with morn- 
 ing colored mists. One had the impres- 
 sion we were about to march into a 
 fairy sea. The tops of the occasional 
 village stood up like gilded wreckage 
 from the foam. Sometimes the ravine 
 was so sheer along the side of our road 
 that I felt pictorial — as though we were 
 a gallant fresco on a high palace wall. 
 
 So we reached the next cantonment — 
 not an especially pretty town — but 
 our chamber was a sunny paradise con- 
 taining two tall beds. Before luncheon 
 we drank port sitting on stools by the 
 enormous fireplace in an ancient inn. 
 To my eye, it composed into a Rem- 
 
 ' Censored. 
 82 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 brandt picture, rich in tone and old — 
 old and crimson and brown. The women 
 folks were buxom and talkative. Their 
 cheeks, even those of the grandmother, 
 were brilliantly red. The arrival of our 
 regiment had set the slumberous place 
 into a warm activity. Getting into bed 
 that night I encountered a hot stone 
 jug — my hostess had put it there — 
 it made me feel as cosy as a married 
 man. What a good night's sleep ! 
 
 The fifth day was the hardest one for 
 me. I left an hour before the regiment, 
 with the men sent ahead to prepare the 
 cantonment. We sang in the moonlight. 
 The fields were a lacework of hoar 
 frost. The road often slippery and diffi- 
 cult — but ever the Beauty sailing in 
 the brilliant air — the Beauty that never 
 forsook us — and which led us to the 
 village of white houses under the in- 
 spired hill. Tliere I had a bad quarter 
 of an hour; your old demon, "the 
 shake", assailed me. I trembled and 
 chattered like a miserable ghost. I re- 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 covered in a cup of hot milk. Mon 
 Dieu ! I was tired. After luncheon, if 
 you will believe it, I climbed "/a colline 
 inspiree'' and saluted the marvelous view 
 — it was Shakespearean. 
 
 The next and last day I thought (on 
 getting out of bed) would knock me 
 out — but the week's training carried 
 me through — and I gained the canton- 
 ment (it was a long road) in as bright 
 a condition as the best. Here we were 
 to remain for ten days. Here is a 
 good-sized city and we are lodged in 
 the lady's chamber. Her bed is all 
 right, but her pictures might easily pre- 
 vent one from sleeping. The window 
 looks to the square which is gay with 
 officers of all ranks and ages. Yesterday 
 some one was decorated and the band 
 played "Sambre et Meuse." Our regi- 
 ment is seven miles away. We are with 
 the Commandant, he requesting the Cap- 
 tain's presence and mine also. I have 
 nothing to do but rest and write letters 
 and watch the manners of the town. 
 84 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 Well, dear, if I write any more to this 
 letter, its envelope will burst en route 
 and bestrew the roaring ocean with my 
 manuscript. Besides, I've performed my 
 stunt — the six days' march is over — 
 and there's nothing left to do but make 
 a sign of love and seal it with my name — 
 "He that thou knowest thine," 
 
 E. 
 
 February 10, 1918. 
 CJierie — 
 
 The air is full of bells and a rose and 
 yellow sunset is on the hill. Day dies 
 deliciously and on its wing I cross home. 
 Don't tell me it is noon with you ; call 
 this twilight ours ; we are upstairs 
 in the vagueness, talking. You are mur- 
 muring something from your favorite 
 Tom Kettle, and I'm telling you of the 
 show I saw the other day. "Jamais 
 Deux sans Trois", it was named — 
 being the product of certain members 
 of the 1st Regiment of Zouaves. It was 
 a lightning-quick revue of life in the 
 85 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 trenches, — jolly songs, silly poems and 
 soldiers dressed as ballet girls. You 
 may ask how girls could appear in the 
 trenches. They danced out of the heads 
 of the dreaming poilus. Although I 
 sat with the officers very near the stage, 
 I couldn't discover but what the men 
 made lovely girls ; there seemed to be 
 no limit to their girlishness ; by that 
 I mean we saw both high and low, their 
 skirts being brief as love and their 
 basques cut for Mary Garden. I've 
 seen some real "stars" who couldn't 
 put forth so pink and plump a front. 
 They were killing. Of course nothing 
 escaped parody ; even les mutiles^ al- 
 though brought in on stretchers, leaped 
 off of them and waved their bloody 
 bandages and sang like merry mad men. 
 It was all well worked up and infinitely 
 droll. The hall (in a hospital) was 
 packed like a beehive — we who hadn't 
 yet "gone" and those who had come 
 back ; these latter, poor boys, grinning 
 at the fun through some laxity, as it 
 86 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 were, on death's part. But Death him- 
 self, I fancy, must be getting rather 
 tired of dying. Anyway, he was a long- 
 ways off that afternoon ; it was all 
 jingle and nonsense and peals of laughter. 
 Now, Cherie, I must go back to my 
 *' Somewhere in France." This night 
 wind will take me. I leave you by the 
 singing log. 
 
 Devotedly, 
 E. 
 
 Fehruarij 18, 1918. 
 Cherie — 
 
 Don't grow indifferent to inkpots ; my 
 greatest pleasures are therein nowadays. 
 
 We are having some stinging cold 
 weather which somehow has rudely dis- 
 appointed me. Of course the same thing 
 happens each year and I should have 
 known it was meant for a joke, but I 
 was fooled ; the springlike days of last 
 week merely gave us a look and ran 
 away and hid. Everything is frozen 
 tight to-night. However, I console my- 
 87 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 self by thinking others were gulled. 
 Madame set out a bed of lettuce plants. 
 Primroses and daisies bloomed by the 
 wall ; poor things, I don't know what 
 they did with themselves last night — 
 quietly froze to death, I suppose. 
 
 Did I ever tell you of the murder we 
 had in camp ? Oh ! it happened two 
 months ago. In a cafe, where every 
 one was more or less "drunk", a man 
 in our company shot two bullets into a 
 friend. Nothing, of course, strange about 
 that, but the man who had the bullets 
 in his belly was so "drunk" he didn't 
 know for a moment that he was shot. 
 He walked (?) to his barrack and rolled 
 into his cot and fell fast asleep. He was 
 found next morning not only dead as 
 dead could be from the bullets but 
 frozen stiff as a poker. And this reminds 
 me of the meat I saw to-day — it was 
 being unloaded from a van and cut 
 with an ax and distributed. I stopped 
 to watch the red sight and one of the 
 butchers told me that the meat had 
 88 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 come from Chicago in the same cold 
 storage cars in wliich it had been packed 
 two years ago. It was beautiful looking 
 beef. We are eating some of it to-night. 
 So you see my blood still flows from 
 U. S. A. Long live Uncle Sam ! 
 
 The Captain and I have been this 
 afternoon to see two officers in a hospital. 
 They were wounded on our champ de tir 
 three days ago. A grenade prematurely 
 exploded, knocking out three teeth from 
 the jaw of one officer and completely 
 tearing away the hand from the arm 
 of the other. It was a horrid sight. 
 One can't imagine the suffering. Not 
 the least atom of his hand could be 
 found — blown to air. The poor chap 
 was very unhappy this afternoon ; every- 
 thing was black before him. Curiously 
 enough, h^ said he could still feel his 
 fingers. The officer who lost three teeth 
 was bandaged to his merry little eyes 
 and wore his *' bonnet de police." He 
 looked very funny 
 
 E. 
 89 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 March 10, 1918. 
 CJierie — 
 
 I'm a brute. It's your birthday and 
 it's a free Sunday and I should be think- 
 ing only of writing you a ream of letters 
 instead of this word to tell what of 
 course you very well know — that IMarch 
 10th means you and so we love it. Please 
 forgive me for omitting the reams (poetry, 
 news, pictures, etc.). You see, for all 
 I'm thinking of you, I'm also thinking 
 of a story which must be copied into 
 your book. 
 
 Yes, "it" has developed into a book — 
 a little book of short stories which will 
 be charmingly titled "Dear Emily." 
 Five stories are already finished (how 
 they will amuse you), and as my time 
 is short, too, they must be put into one 
 book. My knapsack doesn't admit of 
 many stray manuscripts (no matter how 
 good or how bad). It tickles me, the 
 thought of "stories" on my sweating 
 back. Out of my head, off of my back, 
 90 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 down at your feet. When the collection 
 is complete it shall sail home. 
 
 No permission as yet — just as well. 
 Paris was bombed last night, and I 
 would far rather die at the front in the 
 confusion and the tumult than in Paris 
 in a cafe or a bed. \Mien do I go to 
 the actual fighting front ? I don't know, 
 but I'm ready to follow any orders. 
 
 Has She come to M. yet ? She is 
 here — bushes in leaf and flower, and 
 that way of Hers on the fields and in my 
 heart. If I were human I should be 
 homesick but — but — 
 
 The lovely river is alive with poilus 
 washing their clothes and their bodies. 
 Their shirts and drawers are stretched 
 wide on the tombstones of the churchyard 
 to dry. I should love to wash my clothes 
 in the river. 
 
 I lunched with a colonel yesterday, 
 a charming soldier. 
 
 But you are making me forget my story. 
 
 Devotedly, 
 
 E. 
 91 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 March 16, 1918. 
 Dear Mother — 
 
 I am marched away to another "Some- 
 where m France." We made the twen- 
 ty-six miles yesterday by starhght and 
 sunrise. A poetical experience, during 
 which I burned the ends of my two 
 great toes. Arriving, I took off my 
 good shoes and found your perfect socks 
 in a condition resembling mush — tramp, 
 tramp and sweat, sweat. But one soon 
 forgets the toes and only the pursuing 
 beauty remains. What exquisite fields 
 and rivers and towns I have seen at 
 dawn — And too the Spring has come — 
 leaves on the willows and tassels and 
 furry tips. The meadows near by are 
 blue with a little blossom like a star. 
 I inclose one in this letter. 
 
 Well, here isn't at all attractive, for 
 all the Spring and her blue eyes. Here 
 is a vast camp on a w^indy plateau which 
 to-day's sunshine makes possible, but 
 which a spell of rain would render almost 
 92 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 deadly. The good Captain and I are 
 lodged in a tiny, tiny box in a long 
 barrack. My bed is three planks. Last 
 night, however, I was thankful for just 
 that, and with all, or nearly all, my clothes 
 on me, slept fairly well. I shall have 
 less in the trenches, but I'm out for 
 the less which is, after all, the more. 
 
 Next week we go for our deferred 
 permission. I'm quite ready for it, I 
 assure you. Ten days in Paris and after 
 — I wonder ? Be confident that no mat- 
 ter what the "after" brings I shall be 
 content. Only I do hope I won't be 
 taken prisoner ; that would be most 
 tiresome. I want to kill and kill and 
 then come home. Doesn't it seem a 
 long time since I went away? But 
 you have been so near me this last year 
 and a half — and always so lovely and 
 kind. I think you are beautiful. 
 
 Devotedly, 
 
 E. 
 
 9S 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 March 30, 1918. 
 
 I'm not sure of my date. It is the 
 Saturday before Easter. Cherie, well, 
 here I am a long, long way from the 
 windy plateau. We took to the road. 
 How bright shone the moon ! I was 
 loaded like a pack mule. As we knew 
 not but that we might go directly into 
 battle, I carried everything I might 
 need on my back, which included a 
 good many cartridges, of course, and 
 bread and wine. And so we marched 
 until eight o'clock (how the larks sang 
 when the sun came up, and the river — 
 I mustn't forget how beautiful it looked 
 covered with a golden smoke !). And 
 "there" we halted and stacked our guns 
 and found a funny little cafe and drank 
 wine and waited and waited. 
 
 At eleven o'clock four miles of motor 
 trucks arrived and w^e piled in, one on 
 top of the other. We rode until ten 
 o'clock the next day. Well, I hope 
 I shall not be asked to repeat that 
 94 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 experience ; it sounds easy enough on 
 paper, but in reality it was very painful. 
 Dust, dust, dust, and not room enough 
 to shift a leg. By nightfall we were four 
 miles of blistered buttocks. The smell of 
 the gasoline made us all sick. Dust — 
 dust — dust — it transformed us into 
 old images thrown on an ash heap. It 
 turned our hair and beards into starched 
 lace. It made us look like fat mummies. 
 It was awful. We rode on through 
 the night. I could not sleep. The others 
 plumped together like powdery dolls. 
 The Doctor sagged on my shoulder, 
 murmuring something about "la belle 
 France resting on the shoulder of Uncle 
 Sam." I was hot and feverish — great 
 fatigue excites me. The Lieutenant on 
 my other shoulder was shivering with 
 cold. I tried to diffuse some of my 
 warmth in his direction. Pete was hang- 
 ing forwaj-d, dozing and swinging like 
 a pendulum. The dust on his face 
 becoming purple, I awakened him. 
 At one o'clock we were given two 
 95 
 
^A^ AMERICAN POILU 
 
 hours' rest. The town ahead was being 
 bombarded. Pete and I, nearly cramped 
 to death, got out of the truck and lay 
 down on the plowed field. The moon 
 was brilliant. I slept on the ground 
 for an hour ; I can hardly say I rested. 
 At three o'clock we were riding again — 
 on through the dawn and the early 
 day. At ten o'clock we arrived. As 
 in a dream I saw our landscape was hilly 
 and charming. But I thought only of 
 something to eat and a place to sleep. 
 Both were given me and, as I told H., 
 I knew the divinity of food and straw. 
 The dish of hot soup was more precious 
 than the walls of St. Peter's ! 
 
 I am with the Captain, who is lodged 
 over a bakery. The machine that kneads 
 the dough arouses us at four o'clock — 
 by noon our room is fragrant with the 
 warm smell of new bread. 
 
 I have looked over the countryside ; 
 it is lovely — disappearing hills of vine- 
 yards — red villages — fields blue with 
 spring. I find le mouton among the 
 96 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 violets. How long we shall remain here 
 nobody knows. We may all be fighting 
 in twenty-four hours or we may be 
 living quietly over a bakeshop. The 
 air is charged with the future. The Eng- 
 lish are retreating, but only for reasons 
 of strategy, I fancy. We await news 
 of the reaction. The thousands and 
 thousands of boys suffering makes the 
 blood curdle. Recently a colonel, who 
 had "done" the battle of Ypres, told 
 me that in one day in that battle the 
 English lost tw^elve thousand men from 
 seven in the morning until sunset — but 
 — Ypres was an English victory ! Alas, 
 that the wings of Victory should be 
 colored like the wings of Defeat. 
 
 I am glad to read that Muck has been 
 arrested. How absurd for America to 
 give her sons and her dollars and at the 
 same time honor men like Muck ! Do 
 not trust a German. The race is de- 
 praved. Before the battle of the Marne 
 the Bodies rested in this little hamlet 
 for five days and departing took away 
 97 
 
^A^ AMERICAN POILU 
 
 in wagons, brought for the purpose, all 
 the linen from the little homes. Dirty, 
 dirty Germans. 
 
 Well, Cherie, make your garden beauti- 
 ful — put rose bushes around your doors. 
 
 Devotedly, 
 
 E. 
 
 April 4, 1918. 
 CJierie — 
 
 We approach the great event. It may 
 be I shall come back ; it may be I shall 
 touch the happy isles and see the great 
 Ulysses ; but whatever port I make, 
 no new and unheard-of beauty can ever 
 ask me to forget you — never — never. 
 
 Listen — if it is to be this spring, 
 Madame S. will send you the manuscript 
 of "Dear Emily." Needless to say it 
 is unfinished — merely a sketch of what 
 I could make it — and the loveliest 
 stories are in my head. 
 
 The change of late has been enormous 
 for me. I am separated from the Cap- 
 tain. I am with the poilus. Every 
 98 
 
^A^ AMERICAN POILU 
 
 one is kind and I am very happy. Noth- 
 ing can prevent me from doing my best. 
 I am strong and well, although my feet 
 are blistered and my back tired. The 
 beautiful Captain has done everything 
 in his power to make things easier for 
 me, but — war is war. 
 
 My dreams are my support ; they 
 transform everything. I bend down like 
 a Greek god and bandage my heels. 
 I decorate my luggage with turquoise 
 and scarlet. I see you and mother like 
 two tall Queens in a story and your 
 years as long and gray as Northern Sagas. 
 I transform in order to endure. Do you 
 understand ? And yet I never forget — 
 never — I've a thousand chances for 
 returning, but know I am happy, what- 
 ever the issue. I may have time to 
 write you again before the battle — I 
 don't know — 
 
 My love — 
 
 Your devoted 
 E. 
 
 99 
 
AN AMERICAN FOILU 
 
 April 4, 1918. 
 My Beloved Mother — 
 
 So many things to tell you, so many, 
 many things that would make you laugh, 
 but my present conditions do not permit 
 my pen to cut any capers. As I told 
 E., I have left the beautiful Captain 
 and I am living like the least of the 
 poilus. It is very amusing and I am 
 very happy. Something deeper than my 
 soul is singing inside, and if the song 
 doesn't fail me I shall not suffer, what- 
 ever befalls me. You would not know 
 me. I hardly know myself. I sleep 
 on a dirty bag of straw — I eat from 
 my half -washed tin dish — I scrub my 
 own soiled clothes. I simply cannot 
 keep myself clean. All I have I carry 
 on my back ; how I manage to I don't 
 know. Your dear eyes would fill with 
 tears if I could tell you how my shoulders 
 have ached ! But — there is the song — 
 I'm happy. 
 
 We are going into battle very soon. 
 100 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 It will probably be the greatest battle 
 in history. I'm glad my feet have almost 
 unconsciously led me into it. What- 
 ever befalls me you will be brave and 
 proud. So many have given so much 
 more ! If I return I will entertain you 
 with my stories for the long rest of 
 your life. If I am detained here by 
 some disaster you will think of me as 
 "away" but happy. 
 
 For the moment it is quiet in the 
 barrack. The men are outside clean- 
 ing the courtyard. It is raining and 
 birds are singing under the eaves. To- 
 morrow we shall be far from this serenity. 
 Daily we are marching — a huge army 
 — nearer la musique. I am a mitrailleur. 
 "\Mio knows but what I shall win the 
 war cross? When the world is howling 
 around me, somewhere inside I shall be 
 thinking of you — and I shall be happy. 
 ^Mien I look at these men with whom I 
 shall face the fire I know I shall be strong 
 enough to stand by them. They are 
 young and tired and no braver than 
 101 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 they are, and they go forward and I go 
 with them, if not a half a step ahead — 
 I think of you and it helps to remember 
 you will be brave and proud. 
 
 Forever and forever, 
 
 E. 
 
 April 5, 1918. 
 Dear Mother — 
 
 My gun is shining, my knapsack is 
 in apple-pie order, all my buttons are 
 sewed on tightly, and I'm half clean, — 
 having stripped off by the river and 
 washed myself up and down. After 
 which I scrubbed my one and only 
 towel. All this is to say I'm ready to 
 advance and do and die. We await 
 orders — the intense yet empty minute 
 is to you. I'm sitting on a bundle of 
 straw in the Captain's abri. It is four 
 o'clock in the afternoon — a charming 
 day — warm and blue and musical with 
 larks — only the howl of the cannon 
 breaks the serenity of this old battle- 
 field. Ruins and soldier graveyards are 
 102 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 as tranquil as gardens in afternoon. 
 Everything waits. 
 
 Well, the change came Easter morn- 
 ing by telephone. The Captain was 
 ordered to join the regiment (as you 
 know we have spent the winter at the 
 Depot), and I was put into the first 
 company of the mitrailleuses. So in a 
 hurry we packed up, said good-by with 
 tears in the eyes to our Commandant 
 B., and left the little room over the 
 bakery. The regiment was lodged some 
 miles away. We drove at twilight 
 through enchanting country, and arrived 
 at eight o'clock. I dined with our new 
 Commandant in a handsome old chateau. 
 It had been occupied by the Boches 
 before the battle of the Marne. Before 
 leaving they had smashed all the tall 
 mirrors in the lovely old rooms. 
 
 The next day we did a long march 
 and on reaching the new cantonment 
 I followed my comrades into the barn. 
 You cannot imagine what a change 
 it was for me nor how quickly I became 
 103 
 
^A^ AMERICAN POILU 
 
 wonted to the conditions, or how happy 
 I feel at being one with the common 
 soldier, come good luck or bad. They 
 are charming and pathetic and devoted 
 to me. They are all my friends — that 
 makes the charm of the exhausting 
 conditions. My God ! what conditions 
 — and yet, somehow for me, lit by a 
 splendor that falls from some inner 
 vision — some happy vision in me — 
 some gift from you. Well, and so I 
 make my bed on the floor (last night 
 it was on the ground) and I wash in 
 the brook and I carry my house on 
 my back. I dine with my tin dish 
 on a stone or on my knees, and I love 
 it and I'm happy. But if only I survive 
 to tell you about it — what fun ! And, 
 dear, if I don't come home how splendid 
 that my feet carried me into the battle 
 for civilization — how splendid to re- 
 member your son also helped to hold 
 the banner — the torch. 
 
 E. 
 
 104 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 April 7, 1918. 
 Cherie — 
 
 How amused you would be to see 
 me making my toilet in the river. I 
 thought of you and your love of "mod- 
 ern improvements" this morning at six 
 o'clock, as I walked down through the 
 dew and barbed wire — now and again 
 jumping an old trench — to my salle de 
 bain. Although it has certain incon- 
 veniences, still, from a decorative point 
 of view, I fancy it rivals the baths of 
 Caracalla. It varies daily. This morn- 
 ing I found it "done up" in silver and 
 lettuce green, the ceiling a pinkish cloud 
 — here and there huge bouquets of 
 aubepine and almond blossoms. The 
 pink sprigs of the latter remind me of 
 Hebrew written on the air. Before roll- 
 ing up my sleeves I paused to listen 
 to the birds. R. L. S. slipped by in 
 his canoe. I scrubbed and returned 
 to the half awakened abri fresh — but 
 not as fresh as a May morn. 
 105 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 My first night on the ground I slept 
 like Homer — being dog weary — but 
 the nights since have been very diffi- 
 cult for me. My hip bones seem to 
 have a persistent desire to bore down 
 to the bowels of the earth. I lie awake 
 for hours — the awful cannon for enter- 
 tainment. My comrades are snoring 
 away like locomotives, which tells me 
 sleeping on the ground is a habit. I 
 shall soon acquire it and sleep (perhaps 
 snore) w^ith them. 
 
 At six a little poilu with straw stick- 
 ing in his beard comes in and shouts 
 *'je jus." He carries a black canvas 
 pail. It brings the coffee — hot and too 
 sweet — but nevertheless I drink two 
 cups with pleasure. Then I take my 
 towel and soap and go to the river. 
 
 To-day it began to rain at eight 
 o'clock — a cold fine rain. We were 
 obliged to spend the morning in the 
 abri, sitting on the straw. It is too 
 dark to read or write. I came up after 
 la soupe to say Bon Jour to Pete, but 
 106 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 his little hole was empty. I sat down 
 and wrote a letter. You have it in 
 your hand. 
 
 E. 
 
 April 11, 1918. 
 Dear Mother — 
 
 My head is feeling too light to make 
 a pen walk more than a step to tell you 
 I have arrived (two hours after mid- 
 night) in my first trench. The journey 
 to it was a crucifixion — long — ex- 
 hausting — violent ; however, my back 
 did not crack open and I was not killed. 
 And the trench ? It is a deep ditch filled 
 with yellow glue. We are to spend the 
 nights there. In the dawn, before Fritz 
 can see us, we slip into a little wood 
 near by, and rolled in our blanket sleep 
 on the ground. To-day I slept like 
 a baby, for all the cannon rip and split 
 and sing over my head. They never 
 stop. I awoke and saw the sun falling 
 through little green leaves. The wood 
 is abloom with violets — the birds sing. 
 107 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 It isn't pleasant to wake up on the 
 ground in one's helmet and wet shoes, 
 yet I'm happy — and hungry (nothing 
 to eat to-day save bread). The cannon 
 never stop on either side — it is hellish 
 — it is indescribable. 
 
 Although I cannot, for the present, 
 write, my memory holds every detail 
 and you shall hear my story when I 
 come home. 
 
 What were you and E. doing April 
 10th .f^ It was a frightful time for me. 
 
 Devotedly, 
 E. 
 
 In the Trench. 
 April 12, 1918. 
 
 Cherie — 
 
 Before trying to get a wink of sleep 
 I send you word. I have watched all 
 night while a demoniacal bombardment 
 went over my head. The stars and 
 I were calm. At daybreak, into the 
 woods — two hours' sleep — and then 
 a shave and off with my shoes to rest 
 108 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 my feet. Now I will sleep again. Fritz 
 is bombarding, but not with enthusiasm. 
 We hear the shell coming, guess at 
 its trajectory and hide ourselves accord- 
 ingl}^ Running back and forth soon 
 gets tiresome, so now I propose to trust 
 in the Lord and sleep. 
 
 A day of a blue divinity — violets 
 and a frail, unnamed yellow blossom 
 hang over the trenches. When the 
 trenches are dry they are not so bad, 
 but where we pass our nights the mud 
 is frightful. Strange sensation to pass 
 hour after hour watching in the black- 
 ness for the sound of a stirring foe ! 
 My wide-open eyes see all sorts of pic- 
 tures in the shadows. The heavens are 
 marvelous — filled with Chinese dogs 
 and bats, butterflies and horses. I think 
 of the young shepherds in Attica. 
 
 Our meal in the darkness is very droll ; 
 a chunk of meat is passed from dirty 
 hand to dirty hand. Last night at 
 one o'clock we were all perishing of 
 thirst, so we dared to walk down the 
 109 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 plain and found a spring and drank. 
 The nectar of Jove could not equal 
 the flavor or freshness of that water. 
 
 Forgive my letter — head and hand 
 are tired — and, well — you couldn't 
 imagine my surroundings save the April 
 sunshine, the violets, and my love for 
 you and mother. 
 
 Devotedly, 
 E. 
 
 April 18, 1918. 
 Cherie — 
 
 , Your letter of March 21st came this 
 morning at six o'clock. I was sound 
 asleep in our hole — with three com- 
 rades together. For my pillow my daily 
 loaf of bread, my feet (shoes on) wrapped 
 in my tent cloth. I had been alone 
 in the fantastic field beside the mitrail- 
 leuse until midnight; one night from 
 six until midnight — the next from mid- 
 night until six in the morning. These 
 April nights are cold — and the mud 
 and the rain — and the continuous hell 
 110 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 of bombardment — the life is unima- 
 ginably hard — each of my fingers is 
 a kind of wound. Once in ten days I've 
 washed my face. Oh ! I'm dirty. A 
 month since I've had my trousers off. 
 I'm dirty as a poor pig — and hungry. 
 The second day en ligne Fritz blew 
 up our three rolling kitchens, so we 
 have eaten little things out of tin boxes. 
 The Captain comes down the boyau 
 now and again to see me. It is so dan- 
 gerous to move. A huge shell fell twenty 
 feet from him the other day and did 
 7iot explode. 
 
 This moment I'm sitting in the trench 
 beside the gun, hidden under a camou- 
 flage. Three hours' guard each day 
 besides the six at night. Life is become 
 a masterpiece of difficulties — however, 
 this sector is what they call "calm." 
 Fritz is just ahead, hidden in his trench. 
 He began to sing yesterday afternoon 
 (was probably drunk), not in the trench, 
 but in a little ruined village behind 
 his lines, and at once we sent over a 
 111 
 
^.V AMERICAN POILU 
 
 dozen or so enormous bombs ; we didn't 
 hear any more singing after that. 
 
 In the night, when I'm not thinking 
 of wonderful beds and eggs on toast, I 
 try to catch the "note" of the situation. 
 Its strangeness and my being in it over- 
 whehn me. The flying shells make 
 a weird music — it varies according to 
 the size ; some are so sweet, like candy — 
 they whine and trail ; some make me 
 think of little, crying, lonely children ; 
 some die away over the line like musi- 
 cal rhymes of E. A. Poe. They sel- 
 dom cease day or night. Then the 
 avians come and try to shoot us, and 
 Fritz is watching to pop off any head 
 that lifts above the mud bank. 
 
 I am happy. I am some one else. My 
 simple comrades are tres gentil. I think 
 of home — its quiet — its warmth — 
 its serenity — You are in Paradise. 
 
 Devotedly, 
 
 ' E. 
 
 112 
 
^A^ AMERICAN POILU 
 
 April 21, 1918. 
 Dear Mother — 
 
 This morning I received a beautiful 
 pair of socks from you. It was a pleasure 
 to see something so new and clean. My 
 dirty conditions would make you laugh. 
 I feel as though I had been carefully 
 varnished from head to foot. My hair 
 is as stiff as wires with dust. It is 
 frightful, and yet of so little importance. 
 I'm alive and happy and clean inside. 
 
 We spent a week in the trenches 
 before the enemy, and now are in reserve 
 three miles in the rear, in a vast and 
 aw^ul mine. We are bombarded con- 
 stantly by big shells, but there is nothing 
 to fear if we remain inside. Strange 
 to emerge from this Stygian blackness 
 (a candle makes only a tiny yellow ring) 
 and find the sun washing a wide spread 
 of April landscape — blue and green 
 and white — and stranger still the city 
 burning on the horizon and shells ex- 
 ploding in all directions. The serenity 
 of nature is astounding. It remains — 
 113 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 I feel it stronger than ail the hell let 
 loose. The roar passes, the sweetness is ! 
 We are to stay here, I fancy, three 
 or four days longer, and then in the 
 night, in whispers, go back to the trenches. 
 I'm glad it is spring. \Yinter in the 
 trenches must make Death blush. I 
 look at my thin comrades, and think- 
 ing of their four years of war, I'm dazed 
 by their splendor. How have they borne 
 \i^ And each one is as sensitive as I 
 am. Each one is cold and hungry and 
 tired and frightened — just as each one 
 is, in the splendor, warm and rosy and 
 
 rested and brave. 
 
 E. 
 
 Au Front. 
 April 25, 1918. 
 
 Clwrie — 
 
 In the midst of all this bombardment 
 and trenches and filth and pinard and 
 comrades, I receive the news that I am 
 to go on permission to-night. I can 
 hardly believe it, and for all I'm "crazy" 
 114 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 to wash up and sit in a chair — that is, 
 crazy to go — still I feel vaguely sorry 
 to leave. However I'm off to-night with 
 Captain Pete. We must walk twenty 
 miles to find the train. Do you feel 
 how excited I am ? I trust we shan't 
 be blown to crumbs before we are out 
 of the war zone. This morning Maurice 
 (the chap who sleeps beside me) and 
 I went down the hill from the mine to 
 the little brook and for the first time 
 in ten days I washed my teeth (and 
 other things), but the shells began to 
 whistle near by, so we came home on the 
 run. Curious how one's dirty bunch 
 of straw and one's loaf of bread (I love 
 it) makes "home." 
 
 I shall be in Paris for a few days and 
 then go to Dinard chez les S. If I can 
 find a hat for you in Paris I shall send 
 it to you. But don't be "difficult." I 
 shall buy it on the "fly." Perhaps 
 I can find a "picture" one for mother. 
 
 If I return from this war I will spend 
 the rest of my life giving you a "good 
 115 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 time", Cberie, but really I had rather be 
 burned to death by liquid fire two times 
 than have the Bodies victorious. Death 
 were a personal joy in face of defeat. 
 
 Well, Cherie, I must bundle up my 
 choses and start for Paris. To-morrow 
 my comrades mount en ligne and I shall 
 be "larking" it in Paris. Strange — 
 
 Devotedly, 
 E. 
 
 Mmj 8, 1918. 
 Dear Mother — 
 
 As you already know, my permission 
 has come and gone like the wind (to 
 me it remains only as a very pleasant 
 dream — a dream filled with the won- 
 derful flowers in F.'s exquisite garden 
 at Dinard), and here I am back with 
 the boys. The change is violent, but 
 your son is a most adaptable man, and 
 he slept last night and has eaten to-day 
 as though he had never seen a clean 
 bed or taken food from a china plate. 
 In truth I was glad to get back here. 
 116 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 Just why I cannot say; it is all that 
 is materially unpleasant, and yet, as I 
 tell you, I'm happy to be *'on the job." 
 The "job" is, for you, unimaginable, but 
 you shall hear about it when I come 
 home. I do hope Mr. Boche won't, 
 at least, shoot my tongue out. 
 
 We left Paris yesterday morning at 
 eight o'clock and arrived "somewhere" 
 at noon. After tramping six or seven 
 miles we learned that our regiment 
 had changed its quarters. Fortunately 
 we found a wagon to take us to the 
 412th. My comrades were delighted to 
 see me. I had brought them a drop 
 to drink and a good cigar. We all made 
 merry. Maurice and Frangois made my 
 bed — the sight of my bed would make 
 you shudder — but I'm the only thing 
 in it that's alive. I slept last night 
 beautifully. This morning I trotted 
 down to the muddy little brook and 
 "washed up", and afterwards sat down 
 on a tree trunk and reread the dear 
 letters I found waiting for me on my 
 117 
 
^A^ AMERICAN POILU 
 
 return from Paris. Two letters from 
 you — one inclosing samples of a dress. 
 I thought their color and quality charm- 
 ing. I am happy when I know you are 
 delightfully dressed. By-the-way, the 
 Captain sent you from Paris (for the 
 socks and wedding cake) a quite lovely 
 scarf. He selected it himself. We both 
 hope it will please you. The Captain 
 orders that you wear it every day. A 
 good soldier obeys his Captain. 
 
 We are probably on the move to- 
 morrow. These are very exciting days 
 for the soldier, and all this spring you 
 must go bravely and softly, thinking of 
 me. Remember always I am content 
 with what I have chosen to do. What- 
 ever the cost I shall have the best of 
 the bargain — whatever the cost — 
 
 I hope your garden is pushing up 
 lustily, salad and rose. Oh ! how I should 
 enjoy working in a garden ! I dream 
 of clipping and planting at C. Farm. 
 
 Devotedly, 
 E. 
 118 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 May 11, 1918. 
 Dear Mother — 
 
 Now and again after la soiipe and 
 before it is dark, we play a game of 
 throwing pennies at a given point. I 
 always win, which enchants my com- 
 rades and amuses me. Last night, by 
 great good luck, I threw five sous and 
 gained 114 sous, which amounts to a 
 dollar and a quarter. We finished the 
 game lighted by the end of a candle. 
 
 Yesterday we had a great revue. 
 The General came and looked us over 
 and gave our regiment a decoration for 
 its recent good work. It was a hand- 
 some sight, for all it lacked the glitter 
 of sunshine on our bayonets. Five hun- 
 dred men standing like statues in a wide 
 crescent in a green field. The music 
 began — the trumpets shouted — and 
 from the wood on the hill in front of 
 us came galloping the General and his 
 train of cavaliers. He was gorgeous 
 in his decorations. His saddle was black 
 119 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 and gold. He rode before us and behind 
 us, and then arranged himself and 
 his court like a picture of Napoleon, 
 while we filed by him and presented arms. 
 Our flag — the flag of our division — 
 hung in the air like a poem by Lord 
 Byron. Captain Pete looked very fine 
 on his horse. The Legion d'Honneur 
 shone like a rose on his blue coat. Be- 
 fore the ceremony began he galloped by 
 to my company to say Bon Jour and 
 to show me the chic way in which his 
 orderly had arranged the tail and mane 
 of his horse. As he came toward me 
 I had again that sad vision of him dead. 
 He looked so thin, so rare — and so 
 good — so good — Then the trumpets 
 and the General. My arm ached to fall 
 off from holding my gun in the same 
 place for so long. 
 
 \Miile the decorations were being given 
 on the farther end of the field a man in 
 our company caught a partridge. It 
 was *'side splitting" seeing him trying 
 to bag it without disturbing the revue. 
 120 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 He killed it on its nest. It was a beauti- 
 ful mother bird ; there were ten green 
 eggs under her. 
 
 Coming home we marched through 
 a lovely forest. The ground was a bed 
 of lily-of-the-valley — the air took me 
 to Bleak House garden. 
 
 Last night it began to rain. We all 
 got rath^ wet. Our roof leaks. We 
 await orders to move. You may, for 
 a time now, follow me in your daily 
 papers. We await orders to go into 
 the "fray" (as Shakespeare and Aunt 
 J. would say — I'm fond of them both). 
 
 You understand it isn't easy at present 
 to write, and perhaps letters will be 
 rarer. My heart and soul — my funny 
 dreams — are always with you — and E. 
 
 Devotedly, 
 
 E. 
 
 May 18, 1918. 
 Cherie — 
 
 You will please take note of the 
 change in my address. I am now of 
 121 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 the 3d Company. By great good for- 
 tune Pete is my Captain. The new 
 arrangement came about two days ago. 
 Of course I was enchanted to be put 
 into his company, but also I was sorry 
 to leave my comrades of the 1st Com- 
 pany. I had been with them two months 
 or more (time goes so fast) and had come 
 to love the least — and was beloved 
 of them all. My parting was painful ; 
 however, here I am in the 3d Company 
 and already the bond is established. 
 We are young in the 3d Company, most 
 of us under twenty-five. We are Bre- 
 tons with waving blond hair and blue 
 eyes. We are so young it is painful 
 to think of our present business. 
 I This morning the Captain reviewed 
 the Company. We "presented" very 
 well. He spoke to each man, asked 
 his name and previous occupation. 
 When he arrived in front of me he said 
 in English, "I know." 
 
 Well, and so you will address me in 
 the 3eme Cie. But all letters for me 
 123 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 will reach me if you don't forget Secteur 
 49. We are always Secteur 49. 
 
 In my last letter I told you we were 
 going north, and here we are a long, 
 long journey from our last cantonment. 
 Two days of marching and thirty hours 
 in the train. I have been frightfully 
 tired — too tired to remember — but my 
 gift of sleep never leaves me. I even 
 slept through a bombardment by les 
 avians. I was told afterward all the world 
 was dehout. Yesterday we all suffered 
 from the intense heat. It was hellish. 
 We had only ten miles to make, but 
 the road was shadowless and the sun 
 overhead. There were moments when 
 I would have given my soul and yours 
 for a drink of water. My shoulders 
 were paralyzed by the weight of my 
 sacks. Besides our ordinary luggage we 
 carried "four days' food" (bread and 
 "monkey" are hea\'y). 
 
 As I said, this is a country of inter- 
 minable dusty roads zigzagging through 
 vast level fields — beautiful fields no 
 123 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 doubt to spin by in "Polly", but for 
 the trooper, discouraging. However, I 
 didn't really look at them, my eyes 
 being on the dust just a step ahead of 
 my foot. Some of us fell by the nettles 
 and some of us were carried away on 
 canvas stretchers ; all of us were fatigued 
 to the bone. Toward evening we saw 
 ahead, like a plumy oasis in a green 
 desert, our cantonment. We arrived 
 with the twilight. I can't tell you how 
 romantic a little village it is ; a strange 
 lost garden of trees from the edges of 
 which roll, away to the horizon, the 
 bare fields. The houses are thatched 
 and colored and centuries old. 
 
 We are lodged in a prehistoric sort 
 of barn made like a swallow's nest of 
 timber and mud. It smells of straw. 
 There are no windows, but the roof is 
 literally perforated with holes. This 
 morning when I opened my eyes I saw 
 the mud walls specked with gold disks. 
 For a long time I listened to the doves 
 and the larks. The latter seemed to 
 124 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 be hanging garlands of song on my roof. 
 The fields (the fields inside the oasis) 
 are brilliant gold — buttercups up to 
 the flowery hawthorn hedges. We can 
 buy nothing here save milk and eggs 
 and butter. Last night I bought twenty 
 quarts (for a dollar) of milk for the tired 
 boys in my section. We stood around 
 while the weird old woman milked the 
 beautiful cows. I also bought eighteen 
 handsome heads of lettuce (for thirty -five 
 cents), to make a camouflage for le singe. 
 This letter was begun beside the butter- 
 cups, but it is finished chcz Captain Pete. 
 
 Devotedly, 
 E. 
 
 Shne Cie. dc MitraUlcuses, 
 412 Rcgt d'Infaiiterie, Secteur 49. 
 
 May 30, 1918. 
 Dear Mother — 
 
 I'm thinking of my father to-day 
 
 and your father — and the two little 
 
 flags standing up on their graves. And 
 
 I hope you have put a flower beside the 
 
 125 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 flags. This morning when I awoke — 
 last night a terrible battle in the air 
 
 — I thought of our graves, so far from 
 me, and wished it were possible for me 
 to climb the hill and find Wistaria Path 
 and look at those two little stones — 
 and the grass — and the flags. Later 
 when we were making a sham attack 
 in a divine little wood — its ferns are 
 knee high — I was thinking all the time 
 of those two little flags and the so-long- 
 dead soldiers underneath. Walking back 
 through the fields from the divine wood 
 
 — my comrades singing and laughing 
 and *' ragging" like holiday children — 
 I decided to arrange an extra something 
 to eat for my comrades' supper in memory 
 of those two far-away flags and the men 
 under them. It isn't easy to market here, 
 but with the Captain's help, I've found 
 white wine and three cans of green peas 
 and a pound of butter. Just that makes 
 a fete for my section this evening. 
 
 Our weather is glorious ; we eat under 
 a great linden tree that drops odd little 
 126 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 seeds into our tin dishes ; we sit on 
 boxes filled with cartridges — we are 
 disgracefully inelegant — but we are so 
 friendly and kind and young. I fancy 
 our fathers ate in about the same way 
 in 1861 ; anyway, they sup with us this 
 evening — under the big tree on the 
 boxes — and all of us so friendly and 
 kind. You too, my dear, will be with 
 us — because you are always with me. 
 But you must not listen to all of the 
 jokes we shall find in the white wine. 
 So young we are, but our jokes — well — 
 I'm sure our fathers told them or laughed 
 at them in 18G1. 
 
 Nothing changes, dear, so you know I am 
 
 Devotedly, 
 E. 
 
 fieme Cie. de Mitrailleuses , 
 412eme Reg^t d^Infanterie, Sedeur 49. 
 
 June 5, 1918. 
 Dear Mother — 
 
 Isn't this the anniversary of your 
 wedding day? It seems so to me, but 
 127 
 
^A^ AMERICAN POILU 
 
 perhaps I'm mistaken ; you know I was 
 so very young at the time of your nup- 
 tials. WTiat a charming bride you must 
 have been, and what a good time you 
 must have had, so long ago in June. 
 Well, my dear, to-day I'm somewhere 
 else from where I last wrote you. We 
 have traveled many miles from the 
 quaint little village hidden in the oasis 
 of trees. A day and a half we were 
 in the train, that is I was on a truck 
 — with two machine guns, on the look- 
 out for bombarding aeroplanes. The 
 day was an agony of grilling sunshine 
 and the night was cold ; however, we 
 were fortunate in regard to the bombs. 
 A soldier's life is a series of miraculous 
 escapes, or else we must believe in 
 fatality and know we are immortal 
 until our name is called. I have talked 
 with so many soldiers who have fought 
 since the beginning of the war and not 
 a scratch to show for it, and I've heard 
 of others who were killed in their first 
 attack. Is it all luck or is it fatality, 
 128 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 or do the two words mean the same 
 thing ? I am lucky to-day — I'm beauti- 
 fully alive, and the beauty of this coun- 
 tryside is for me — the iridescent canal 
 — the iridescent dragon fly — the iri- 
 descent forest — the iridescent sky, all 
 is to me this fifth of June, 1918. And 
 memory is mine too ; I am across the 
 Atlantic — I am at home. I am kissing 
 you and asking if this isn't the anni- 
 versary of your marriage ? 
 
 Devotedly, 
 E. 
 
 Seme Cie. de Mitrailleuses, 
 412me Reg't d'Infanterie, Secteur 49. 
 
 June 6, 1918. 
 Mon cher Bouvard — 
 
 Since last night your affectionate Pecu- 
 chet has refused to take this war seri- 
 ously. From now on until I am as 
 dead as Marley or a taxpayer in M. I 
 shall be a broad grin. Everything is 
 so unexpected, so droll. For a year 
 (I enlisted July 27, 1917) I've tried to 
 129 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 be serious, but I give it up. My recent 
 letters have told you with what awful 
 haste and fatigue our regiment left the 
 oasis of the north. It was a divine 
 Sunday and very hot ; we marched for 
 ten miles (I sweated so the march was 
 a swim for me) and we slept that night 
 in a lovely orchard under the stars. 
 At dawn we were put like cattle into a 
 train (I worked like a galley slave help- 
 ing to push "things" on to the trucks) 
 and rode for twenty-four hours. My 
 section was on a truck with two machine 
 guns — waiting to defend us against 
 les avions. Nothing happened. 
 
 We arrived in a dead city ; everybody 
 had flown — fearing invasion by the 
 Bodies. We were terribly tired and 
 terribly dirty. We marched to our pres- 
 ent cantonment, which is only a few 
 miles from the foe. We expected the 
 first day to go into battle at any moment. 
 Nothing happened. Well, last night the 
 officers invited me to go fishing. "5on," 
 says I, "let us go fishing." We went 
 130 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 and, cher Bouvard, what do you think 
 I did? I saw? 
 
 The canal was exquisite — a page by 
 Rodenbach ; we spread a net, and re- 
 treating from it a hundred feet, turned 
 and proceeded to advance towards it 
 step by step, beating the water with 
 long poles. I never saw anything so 
 funny, so pastoral. We became so warm 
 with the violent exercise that we threw 
 our coats to the ground and continued 
 to beat the mysterious water. Then 
 we lifted the net — fishes — a dozen 
 squirming silvery ones ! Did you ever 
 hear of anything so quaint ? AVe brought 
 home two dozen of them — and we 
 laughed like schoolboys. The cannon 
 meanwhile were roaring away like mad, 
 but for us it might well have been in 
 another star. We came here to fight 
 for liberty and justice and behold — we 
 fish — and laugh ! 
 
 And the countryside is so lovely this 
 month of IVIay. This canal flowing so 
 gently before me — and the light of 
 131 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 this evening sky. The decor is one of 
 green-gold and pearl. A dragon fly in 
 peacock blue sits on a yellow iris by my 
 side. We are mirrored in the canal. 
 Birds call from the forest. Does it 
 read like a soldier's letter.'* Doubtless 
 the war is going on somewhere (I hear 
 it in fact) but for me this May evening 
 is a picture serene as Helen of Troy 
 and colored like Cleopatra's eyes. 
 
 Devotedly, 
 Pecuchet. 
 
 Seme Cie. de Mitrailleuses^ 
 412e77ie Reg't d'lnfanterie, Secteur 49. 
 
 June 7, 1918. 
 Mon clier Bouvard — 
 
 I wrote you last evening of the comedy 
 of this life, and directly after posting 
 the letter I wondered if I hadn't tempted 
 the gods, for before going to bed a 
 frightful bombardment began "up north'* 
 and we were told we might be ordered 
 to face the music at dawn. Sure enough, 
 at three o'clock the word came, and in a 
 132 
 
AN AMERICAN POILtJ 
 
 jiffy we were on our feet and rolling 
 up our blankets, with the strange thought 
 spinning in the chilly air that another 
 day might find us sound asleep with 
 our ancestors. It was a splendid "tear- 
 ing about" for thirty minutes, and then 
 the word came that neither Liberty nor 
 Justice needed our assistance or blood for 
 at least another half day. It was funny 
 — and somehow I felt slightly disap- 
 pointed. It is so flat to be armed to 
 the eye tooth at 3 : 30 a.m. and then 
 to find there is nothing to defend or 
 kill. 
 
 Well, Pete called for hot coffee, and 
 when it appeared we sat down and 
 breakfasted and laughed like children. 
 The day grew golden at the window, and 
 I saw the ancient church on the slope 
 was as serene as yesterday. To-morrow ? 
 To-morrow? I haven't an idea about to- 
 morrow. But I shall be glad when it is 
 the fourth of July. If we are going to 
 fight before summer we must begin pretty 
 soon. A battlefield in hot August must 
 133 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 be a horror of liorrors, and the stench 
 and the thirst ! How foohsh this war is ! 
 I've a new occupation. I'm the tele- 
 metreur of our Company. I carry on 
 my back a huge apparatus (something 
 like an ogre's rolhng pin) into which, 
 after arranging it before me on a huge 
 three-legged stand, I gaze with one 
 eye and discover a house or a tree two 
 miles away miraculously near my nose. 
 Then, by certain delicate movements 
 of which I'm the master, and no small 
 amount of arithmetic, I can tell the 
 Captain the exact number of yards 
 between me and anything in sight, thus 
 enabling the gunner to locate the heart 
 of the approaching foe. It is interest- 
 ing work. 
 
 In place of a gun I carry a revolver — 
 like an officer; this pleases me. A 
 revolver is so easily managed, I've an 
 idea I could pop off the Kaiser long 
 before he could lift his gun. In the 
 German army each mitrailleur is pro- 
 vided with a revolver. Le teUmetreur 
 134 
 
^A^ AMERICAN POILU 
 
 is always with the Captain — that is 
 somewhere near the head of the com- 
 pany — and that pleases me also. I 
 think of you these June days. 
 
 Devotedly, 
 Pccuchet. 
 
 Battlefield — Poste de Secours, 
 
 June 12, 1918. 
 Mother — 
 
 Two days now we have been in battle. 
 Pete was wounded this afternoon. The 
 beautiful Captain is wounded and has 
 been carried away. I took him on my 
 shoulder from the battlefield a mile. 
 We found a stretcher. We were only 
 separated by perhaps sixty feet when 
 the shell came down and wounded him 
 in the leg and shoulder. I am alone — 
 I am a frozen tear — not only for Pete's 
 wound (not terribly serious) and depart- 
 ure, but for the unbelievable sorrow, 
 horror, slaughter — I don't know what 
 — that I've seen. My escape has been 
 a miracle ; we have been shelled for 
 135 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 hours — and gassed — and shot at from 
 the German mitrailleuses and the devils 
 in the air. 
 
 I am writing this — I have force to 
 write this — because I am full of brandy. 
 I am crying hard inside. It is more 
 terrible than any one has written or 
 told. The battle is still raging on a 
 front of many miles. We are progressing 
 foot by foot. I'm in a calm corner for 
 a moment, as I left our battle hill to 
 help my Captain. It is awful and 
 I'm strangled by the affection in me 
 for my poor comrades — for all the 
 world. It is too awful. To-night — 
 to-morrow. 5^ How can any one live in 
 this hell? 
 
 Excuse this scribble, it's all one-sided 
 I know, but I write to tell you I'm un- 
 touched and that the Captain is wounded ; 
 curious he was wounded during the first 
 time since we attacked that we were 
 not within four yards of each other. 
 The sun has shone all day. The flowers 
 in the field are beyond belief — larkspur 
 136 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 — miles of its blue — poppies — clover, 
 etc. 
 
 I love you with my heart and soul. 
 Good-by for to-day, 
 
 E. 
 
 Seme Cie. Mitrailleuses, 
 412me Reg't cVInfanterie, Secteur 57. 
 
 June 19, 1918. 
 Dear H. 11. — 
 
 The battle — it recedes — I am able 
 to look back at it — I will tell you what 
 I see, for I cannot tell what I felt — be- 
 cause, well, because I felt every sort 
 of a feeling during the three days we 
 were in the hell. 
 
 At twilight June 10th, after a short 
 march, we embarked in the motor trucks 
 and rode all night towards somewhere. 
 I have told you how thoroughly ex- 
 hausting the motor journeys are ; the 
 dust — the lack of room — the smell 
 of essence, etc., render the maximum of 
 fatigue. It was four o'clock when we 
 137 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 disembarked by the side of a road running 
 through a dreary, flat landscape. Not 
 a village, not a farm in sight ; the roar of 
 the distant cannon filling the air. We 
 had received pressing orders so that the 
 mules and horses were left behind ; thus 
 it was necessary for my company to 
 push the machine guns and cases of 
 cartridges — we did so for five miles. 
 Remember, none of us had slept the 
 night ; most of us were suffering with 
 headaches. 
 
 At six o'clock, in a weird, dismantled 
 village, we were told we were to attack 
 that morning at eleven o'clock. A half 
 hour's repose and we were on the march 
 again, passing through a country bright- 
 ening to the sun — the day. I helped 
 push the material until the pain in my 
 ribs made it impossible. It was a long 
 march — perhaps twelve miles. The 
 scene was very exciting — thousands of 
 wagons and horsemen and soldiers con- 
 verging from the three corners. In the 
 shelter of a high cliff — a kind of quarry 
 138 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 — we assembled ; over the brow the 
 attack was already in progress. We 
 waited our turn to advance, laughing, eat- 
 ing, saying ^' Au 'voir'"' and watching the 
 stretcher bearers already returning with 
 ghastly wounded — a rage of thunder 
 was over the brow. 
 
 Noon — ^^ en avanf'' — company formed ; 
 we went over the top — not of a trench 
 you understand, but of the cliff. This 
 was open warfare, guerre de mouvement. 
 Of course I didn't know what to expect 
 "over the top." A superb and vast 
 roll of fields — colored like a painting 
 
 — flowers of every kind and color — blue 
 and red and pink and yellow and purple, 
 brilliantly gilded by the sun. Miles 
 and miles of flowers. To right and left 
 as far as I could see, thin rows of sol- 
 diers marching. The Adjutant leading, 
 I coming directly after, and behind me at 
 a little distance our section — the Captain 
 was to the right with the Commandant. 
 
 Huge shells were falling around us — 
 exploding with sickening shrieks. We 
 139 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 heard them whistHng as they approached 
 
 — we threw ourselves flat to the ground 
 
 — here and there torn holes in the 
 ground — a yard away a bloody spot, 
 a gun. Sometimes we lay in the flowers 
 for half an hour, eating the seeds of the 
 tall wheat. 
 
 ^' En avant.'' We were up — almost 
 every soldier had gathered a bouquet. 
 Always the howling shells, always the 
 flowery fields more and more golden 
 under the declining sun. It was superb 
 
 — like the beginning of a symphony by 
 Beethoven. We made eight miles or 
 so like this, not one of the Seme Cie. 
 receiving a wound. At seven o'clock 
 we were under the hill — the Boches 
 had retreated to the other side. Seven 
 o'clock ? It must have been later — it 
 was growing dusk. Boche wounded were 
 lying about. How I hate their compact 
 little heads ! 
 
 The third section — my section — of 
 the mitrailleuses was ordered to the left 
 
 — a mile perhaps — and the Captain 
 
 140 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 ordered me to go with them (I was 
 detached from the section as Uaison), 
 make a plan of the path and the em- 
 placement of the gun, and bring it back 
 to him. Going down the valley I talked 
 with the friends from other companies 
 that I met — I said a word to the gray 
 wounded — I glanced at the dead. We 
 crossed an open space and sat down on 
 the slopes of the hill. A terrific bom- 
 bardment was starting, and a rain of 
 bullets from an indirect "tir" of a ma- 
 chine gun was falling on the open road. 
 A company of men entered it at the 
 same time ; they began to run — to fall — 
 to cry — to bleed. Notice, by a mere 
 chance — a minute — we came tlirough. 
 The shells were coming down like mad. 
 Suddenly five soldiers stumbled down 
 the hill among us — five poor men in 
 agony with the gas ; they were awful to 
 contemplate. 
 
 The Adjutant gave me the drawing 
 of the path and told me to take my 
 chance and return to the Captain. The 
 141 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 bullets had stopped coming. I flew across 
 the open space. I ran like fire along 
 the valley. That mile sprint will remain 
 with me forever. Most of the shells 
 had fallen there — the sights were too 
 grotesque — the mutilated bodies, Ah ! 
 The soldiers were crowded against the 
 slope — their faces glittering. The dead 
 were serene as old marbles — one young 
 dead I shall always see. He was so 
 beautiful — his rifle under his long hand. 
 Coming down the valley I had talked 
 with a charming fellow whom I've known 
 since last autumn. Hearing my name 
 called (when returning, I was the only 
 person moving) I looked up and there 
 was my friend on his back, waving two 
 hideous stumps — both legs torn away 
 within the half hour. Ofiicers hidden 
 under the hill cried out to me to run 
 faster. I ran as fast as I could — I 
 reached tHe Captain and the rest of 
 the Company. He was glad to see 
 me — the shells always falling — but we 
 were sheltered a little by the hill. 
 142 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 It grew dark — we spread our blanket 
 and went to sleep — I was empty — 
 We were to attack to the right at dawn. 
 A charming lieutenant slept on my 
 *' other side." He spoke a few English 
 words to me before sleeping ; at noon the 
 next day his head was cut off by a 
 piece of shell. At dawn the Company 
 was on the move to the right — every 
 way the wounded were coming in, towards 
 the Poste de Secours. Poor mortals, 
 they were tragic — tragic — tragic — and 
 divine — the horror of it — the w^hiteness 
 
 — the love of it. I saw one wounded 
 man carrying another wounded comrade 
 on his shoulder, walking slowly — slowly 
 
 — utterly regardless of the ever falling 
 shells. I saw Fritz red with his detested 
 blood being borne on a stretcher by four 
 Frenchmen. The Captain's orderly had 
 a bottle of cognac — we drank of it. 
 There was a road to cross — in full view 
 of the enemy — we crossed it in little 
 groups on the fly. Remember, each 
 of us had all his "stuff" on his back, 
 
 143 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 something like thirty pounds ; the fatigue 
 is outrageous — but death never found 
 a soldier tired — la vie est si forte, mon 
 Dieu. 
 
 Well, the foe, seeing us dashing across 
 the road, knew we would pass through 
 the village near by (which we did) and 
 he put down a curtain of fire — an un- 
 believable rage of shells — to right — 
 to left — behind — before. They always 
 fell away from me — we ran — we 
 stopped — we crept — we lay flat 
 in the gutters. That village, H. H., is 
 indescribable. It had been recently oc- 
 cupied ; it was a beautiful village — 
 lovely old houses — gardens — fountains, 
 etc. It was a hell of the wildest variety, 
 mad ! The flowery plants danced on 
 the tumbling window sills. The air was 
 gray with powder and smoke, and we 
 were running like crazy children through 
 the crazy streets — a nightmare — we 
 lost the turning. The Captain was as 
 calm as an operatic soldier — his map 
 in his hand — I was at his heel — trying 
 144 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 to decide to throw away at least half 
 the stuff on my shoulders. I remember 
 I had a whimsical desire to walk into 
 a house — I saw such charming bric-a- 
 brac waiting to be smashed. The air 
 was one long howl, bang, bang, bang. 
 For a little time we wore our gas masks 
 
 — and the insanity was complete. I 
 laughed as I ran. The roofs fell in — 
 the great trees whisked to the paving — 
 the garden walls jumped and toppled — 
 the soldiers cried out. Oh, our passing 
 through that village on June 12th was 
 a scream of everything outlandish that 
 you can think of. 
 
 Then we sneaked along by a hedge — 
 before us the fields — the sun — the 
 flowers. The enemy saw us leaving the 
 village just as he had seen us entering 
 
 — another curtain of fire — we gained 
 a little shelter and sat down. I was 
 soon very sleepy and hungry. The shells 
 pounded down on every side. I heard 
 shrieks I shall always hear. We waited 
 *' there" for two hours, then we were 
 
 145 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 ordered to return a hundred or so yards 
 and take a position on the hill. Cau- 
 tiously we crept back, trying to hide our- 
 selves in the hollows and the hedge — 
 but the foe saw us and the shells began 
 to arrive — I lost two dear comrades 
 there. The dead sitting in the sun that 
 we passed were frightful — some with the 
 face completely blown away. We ran 
 up the hill through a graveyard, and 
 for the next hour I can't see why we 
 were not all destroyed. Bang, bang, and 
 then we were up and running to another 
 place — always the shells fell behind me. 
 Up to this time I had been with the 
 Captain — ahead. He was obliged to. 
 leave us for a quarter of an hour to get 
 orders from the Major. During his ab- 
 sence the poor men became dizzy — they 
 couldn't stay still. The shells doubled 
 in violence. I saw Pete coming back, 
 walking quite calmly and looking for 
 us where he had left us. I called out 
 "Pierre." He heard me, he started 
 towards me — we were most of us crouch- 
 146 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 ing in a waving wheat field — but some 
 of the men had placed themselves in an 
 old trench. Pete stopped to order them 
 to advance — a huge shell arrived — 
 exploded — and the beautiful Captain 
 was wounded. 
 
 They called to me — I saw him so 
 white — and his trouser leg already red 
 with blood. For a moment I couldn't 
 believe he was touched — I don't know 
 why it seemed so impossible. Leaning 
 on my shoulder, we staggered across the 
 field, regardless now of shell or bullet. 
 We managed to walk half a mile — found 
 a stretcher, and Pete was carried away 
 to the Poste de Secours — I followed. 
 The doctor cut away his clothes — his 
 shoe was full of blood — a small hole 
 in the side of his leg — a bandage — a 
 good-by — and he was put into an Ameri- 
 can ambulance — and rode away. I 
 say nothing of the victims (Boches and 
 French) rambling and crying and wait- 
 ing and dying around the Poste de Se- 
 cours — it was a shambles. 
 147 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 The afternoon sun was over every- 
 thing — gold — gold — gold — and I was 
 alone — as I can never be alone again — 
 in full battle — my unfailing friend gone 
 from me. Well, I sat down and wrote 
 a word to Mother. I had to. Later 
 I found my corporal and passed the 
 awful night. At dawn we were relieved, 
 departing under an intense bombard- 
 ment — some of us were wounded by 
 our own shells — we came away pinched 
 as ghosts and singing vaguely. Our 
 regiment had done magnificent work. 
 I have only tried to tell you little details 
 which I trust the censors will not blot 
 out. That day at noon we reached our 
 cantonment. I found a vacant corner, 
 and covering my dirty face with my dirty 
 handkerchief wept for all the sorry world. 
 
 For three nights and nearly as many 
 days I had been steady as iron — obey- 
 ing instantly every order — always ahead. 
 Indeed my sangfroid was admired by 
 both officers and soldiers, and I have 
 been proposed for the Croix de Guerre. 
 148 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 If I receive it, I hope you will be proud 
 
 — and offer a bottle of champagne a la 
 Frangais to some one. My section is 
 planning a fete with garlands over the 
 table the day I'm decorated. Strange 
 I should be a soldier wearing a war 
 medal. 
 
 Ah, they were outrageous hours there 
 in the sunshine, the flowers (fields of 
 larkspur) and the slaughter. I've said 
 nothing about the bullets and the bombs 
 from the planes — or the tanks. When 
 I return I will tell you about it all. 
 
 To-morrow, June 20th, there is to be 
 a service in the church for our dead — 
 mort sur le Champ d'llonneur. Poor, 
 poor dead ! I went with them — I loved 
 them — I took their chances — I left 
 them there (I came away untouched) 
 
 — the service — the glory to them — 
 and the grave on the field of honor. 
 
 My letter is too long to reread. I 
 
 know it is filled with errors. Forgive 
 
 them — it will give you an idea at least 
 
 of my first battle — my first attack — 
 
 149 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 only an idea — I'm not in writing mood. 
 If I could communicate with exactitude 
 the vibrations of those days (coming so 
 late in my life) their madness — their 
 pitiless beauty — their horrible horror 
 — their annihilation of me as a per- 
 sonality and their something else for 
 which I have no words, etc., you would 
 weep as I did after they were over and 
 I was safe. 
 
 Here I've started another sheet and 
 my story is finished. No word as yet 
 from the Captain. He will come back 
 as soon as he can — at least he said 
 so when he left me. 
 
 This is a vastly lonely and difficult 
 time for me, H. H. I hope you are writ- 
 ing me often — I need that comfort. 
 
 Devotedly, 
 E. 
 
 June 29, 1918. 
 My dear Mother — 
 
 My recent letters have been doleful 
 reading I'm sure and doubtlessly have 
 150 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 made you and E. feel quite miserable. 
 But, my dear mother, it was a doleful 
 letter or no letter at all. You under- 
 stand that my comrades have never 
 suspected my cafard. I'm always ready 
 to smile, I've been apparently contented, 
 but the instant I began to write — to 
 think of you and home — the sadness 
 of my June overwhelmed me and I 
 relaxed to my fatigue. That has passed. 
 It somehow fades to film. I'm ready 
 to go into another battle. 
 
 Poor Pete is in the hospital with 
 his cruel wounds. The operations have 
 been successful and it is only a matter 
 of a few weeks before he will be back 
 again. He has been so good to me — 
 and we started out together — we en- 
 countered the fire together. I wish I 
 had been wounded by the same shell 
 that disabled him ; I would like to share 
 his sufferings. Poor Pete, he was so 
 superb on the battlefield, and so dry 
 and white with his clothes red with 
 blood when I helped him away. It was 
 151 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 just after he left in the ambulance that 
 I wrote to you — at the Poste de Secours. 
 I wonder what I could have written 
 you. I was at the climax of all my 
 sensations and I sat down quietly and 
 wrote a letter. I should like to read 
 that piece of paper. 
 
 Well, yesterday it was officially an- 
 nounced before the company that I 
 was to be decorated by the regiment with 
 the Croix de Guerre. My citation (you 
 shall have it later) was read, and I 
 blushed to be so strangely compli- 
 mented. 
 
 That summer when at C. we read of 
 the explosion of war in Europe, who 
 could have imagined that your son would 
 be awarded a medal for his bravery 
 in one of the battles? If I come home 
 I shall appear in a bright blue uniform 
 and wearing a decoration. Will you 
 recognize me ? 
 
 What a pity you cannot see the cere- 
 mony of decorating! What a pity the 
 Captain will not see it either; that 
 152 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 touches something under the eyehds. 
 I shall be quite alone when the Colonel 
 pins it to my coat. My comrades are 
 enchanted with my citation ; they plan 
 a fete of wine and flowers for the repast 
 following the ceremony. 
 
 The landscape this evening is Claude 
 Lorraine — that is to say, inundated 
 by a golden haze. I am sitting in a 
 field, but I shan't remain here long ; every 
 sort of insect is trying to tickle or bite me. 
 
 Devotedly, 
 E, 
 
 Juhj 9, 1918. 
 Dear AI other — 
 
 For the last three days we've been 
 surrounded by American soldiers (our 
 blue streets changed in a short summer 
 night to kliaki color) ; they are simply 
 all over the place — sitting against the 
 houses, sleeping under the hedges, walk- 
 ing up and down and across the roads. 
 When the cafe opens they rush in and 
 get "lit up" and dance and sing and 
 153 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 make improper proposals to the "doll" 
 who brings them their sarsaparilla. They 
 talk American, which is a hair-curling 
 language vaguely reminiscent of Eng- 
 lish. They make a noise they call French. 
 They are taller and thinner than was 
 ever our Abraham Lincoln. They spend 
 money as Hetty Green didn't. I fancy 
 they are all more or less nostalgic. They 
 cannot understand a man being in the 
 French army for five cents a day when 
 he might be in the American receiving 
 one dollar a day. They are charming 
 and mysterious and unaccountable. 
 They are the new world. They wear 
 the uniform badly, but their teeth are a 
 brilliant lesson of beauty and health 
 to the poilu. I was invited last night 
 to eat with them — a corporal I had 
 run across two weeks ago in another 
 village being my host. (He has an 
 aunt in Brockton !) 
 
 I was very interested to be an Ameri- 
 can soldier for the time of a meal — to 
 watch how Uncle Sam does it. (I should 
 154 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 have been served an infinitely better 
 supper had I remained chez moi.) After 
 the beans had disappeared and the cup 
 of coffee also, I invited the corporal to 
 the cafe for a drink. We sat in a quiet 
 corner and he told me of his stepmother's 
 quick temper. The room filled (the 
 quiet corner vanished) and cup by cup 
 the songs grew louder. Do you know 
 "Go Easy, Mabel"? It must be a 
 lovely song, because they sang it over and 
 over and over. I've always read it is only 
 the beautiful that can survive repetition. 
 It was late when the "doll" tried to 
 say "Good night" in American and we 
 zigzagged forth into the dreaminess of 
 summer and stars and darkness. The 
 conversation whirled around the "doll" 
 — suddenly she had become the symbol 
 of all that is desirable. (Poor thing, I 
 pass her every day and can plainly see 
 she hasn't washed her neck for a long 
 time.) But last night I'm sure "Our 
 Boys" dreamed of her with a neck whiter 
 than Helen of Troy's ! Poor chaps, they 
 155 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 are just back from the trenches and the 
 
 Atlantic is wide. 
 
 E. 
 
 July 13, 1918. 
 Dear Mother — 
 
 Just a word which may be of no im- 
 portance but — how can one tell ? We 
 are expecting to go into battle any hour 
 now, and if anything tiresome should 
 hit me on the head and I should in 
 consequence go wandering off to pastures 
 new behind the sun — beyond the moon 
 — there is something I want you to do 
 for me. Failing myself to return to M., 
 my Croix de Guerre would be sent to 
 you. I'm profoundly touched and proud 
 of my Croix de Guerre. It is the climax 
 of my life. It is more than a war deco- 
 ration ; it stands for me as the symbol 
 of all that is superbly unexpected. Do 
 you understand me ? Well, sweet 
 mother, I want H. to keep my Croix 
 de Guerre with him for a year. After 
 that it is j^ours. This is only a word 
 156 
 
^A^ AMERICAN POILU 
 
 and may be, as I said, of no importance. 
 Surely we shall be together again. I shall 
 carry your courage with me into battle. 
 
 Devotedly, 
 E. 
 
 July 18, 1918. 
 Mother — 
 
 We are in a lovely summer forest. 
 We are awaiting the word to take our 
 places in the great battle. I am happy 
 — happy to go forward to help — to 
 die — or to return to you and my sister 
 and my brother and 11. Whatever hap- 
 pens to me I shall have you in my heart, 
 as I know I shall rest in yours. It is 
 good to be a soldier. 
 
 Forever — mother — sister — 
 
 E. 
 
 July 24, 1918. 
 In Hospital. 
 Dear Mother — 
 
 I was wounded the 21st of this month. 
 We attacked at dawn and before eight 
 157 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 o'clock I was shot in both legs — just 
 below the knees — the ball remaining 
 in the right leg. The following twenty- 
 four hours were very painful — very 
 painful. On July 22nd, at one o'clock, 
 in a hospital near the front, I was oper- 
 ated upon and the bullet extracted. 
 Yesterday the first dressing was made — 
 the pain was frightful — another dress- 
 ing this afternoon. To-morrow I'm car- 
 ried away on a stretcher to a hospital 
 
 in the interior. 
 
 E. 
 
 Hopital Complevientaire 37, 
 Salle 2, Laval, Mayenne. 
 
 July 29, 1918. 
 Dear Mother — 
 
 The last letter I wrote you (it seems 
 a lifetime ago) was a miserable attempt 
 to meet the situation — that is, we 
 were marching (how tired I was and 
 my ten toes were in a state of decay ; 
 I'm not joking — the sight and smell 
 of my feet appalled me) towards battle. 
 158 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 It was my hist chance to write, and w^hat 
 can one say at so uncertain a moment? 
 I've the traditional desire (it may be 
 stupid) to say good-by before I die, but 
 it's all a matter of chance on the battle- 
 field, and if one is lucky then his good-by 
 has only caused his far-away mother 
 to be unhappy for no reason at all — 
 which is obviously stupid. 
 
 I sent you a broken-winged little adieu 
 July 19. July 21st, at dawn, we went 
 into the hell (to get to our position we 
 were obliged to walk through a cesspool 
 of American corpses — horrible !) and two 
 hours later I came out of it — the passage 
 hole of a bullet in my left leg and the 
 bullet itself nicely and painfully lodged 
 in my right leg — just below the knee 
 (happily bone, cord, nerve not touched). 
 
 I was dripping blood from my waist 
 to my shoes — only one wound had 
 been bandaged on the battlefield. The 
 shells were falling like rain and the air 
 a twang of bullets from the German ma- 
 chine guns (tanks) but I limped through 
 159 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 it all for a mile to the first dressing sta- 
 tion. I say nothing of the dead and 
 dying encountered at every step. The 
 frantic wheat seemed to be crying "Save 
 me ! Save me !" 
 
 I limped along. At the Poste de 
 Secours (unimaginable confusion of 
 wounded) the doctor cut away my trou- 
 sers and dressed my wounds. I saw 
 that the stretcher bearers were snowed 
 under, and as I could limp, I limped 
 on — and before I was put on a stretcher 
 (my leg purple and the size of three) I 
 had limped ten miles. An American 
 ambulance carried me to a railroad sta- 
 tion, and after a long, long dreary wait 
 in the hot sun we (a thousand wounded) 
 were huddled into the train. We rode 
 all night. I do not wish to take that 
 journey again — nothing to eat — to 
 drink — dirt and blood — crowded com- 
 partment — everybody wounded — Mon 
 Dieu. 
 
 The morning brought us to Beauvais 
 — plenty of kind help, plenty of stretch- 
 160 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 ers — the hospital. Some one undressed 
 me (I write all this because I know the 
 detail interests you), washed me, and the 
 doctor took an X-ray of my legs. An 
 hour later I was dead to all the world — 
 beautifully dead — on the high operating 
 table. Towards dusk, I came to — a 
 soft bed — comfortable — my leg bound 
 solidly into a long zinc "gutter." Lack- 
 ing a few days I had been a soldier for 
 one year — and now was a hlesse. The 
 fever began to mount and the leg to 
 scream. I did the best I could, but I 
 had to cry. The kind nurse reminded 
 me that a brave soldier mustn't dis- 
 honor himself by tears. I said I was 
 tired and had a strong desire to throw 
 something at her head. However, I 
 did nothing so energetic — but cried as 
 long as it was a pleasure to do so. Pain 
 is the only real thing in life. To be 
 wounded is nothing — to die less — but 
 to have a wound dressed each day even 
 by the gentlest hands in the world is 
 too awful for words. After my first dress- 
 161 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 ings I was an icy rag for three hours. 
 But already I've borne the dressing 
 each day for a week and so I know I shall 
 stand it until the leg heals. Hasn't 
 it all been a sacrifice ? I accept. Need- 
 less to say when I see les grandes blesses, 
 I smile at my leg in the zinc gutter ; 
 how do they live — the terribly wounded ? 
 Well, I remained three days at Beauvais 
 and then journeyed in the hospital train 
 (there were many Americans also — 
 they attacked with us) all night to 
 Laval. I was glad to come here, as 
 there is nothing to fear from les avians. 
 Fritz has a way, as you read in the 
 papers, of bombarding hospitals near 
 the front. What a pity I could not 
 have been sent to Dinard where Pete 
 is mending ! But a simple soldier must 
 follow orders and I was ordered to Laval. 
 It's not bad here — only it's very poor, 
 and we lack all comforts — except that 
 greatest comfort — kindness ; everybody 
 is beautifully kind, and from my bed 
 I can see the sunshine in the garden. 
 162 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 No letters as yet ; it will be a fete when 
 some arrive. 
 
 I feel so intensely your eagerness to 
 help me — smooth the sheets — wash 
 my hands, etc. (you understand that 
 I can hardly move an inch), that it 
 almost seems as though you actually 
 did — by some mystery — so that hours 
 are less long — and I sleep better at 
 
 night. 
 
 Devotedly, 
 E. 
 
 July 29, 1918. 
 In Hospital. 
 Cherie — 
 
 There's a beautiful young woman in 
 this hospital who is an angel to your 
 poilu. The first time I was taken into 
 the salle de pansement to have my wound 
 dressed she was there. When I told 
 her I was a volontaire she complimented 
 me, and proceeded to make my dressing 
 with all the gentleness in the world. 
 I suffered, but no one could have worked 
 163 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 more tenderly than did the beautiful 
 young woman. Now when I'm taken 
 into the salle de pansement and she is 
 not there, I begin to sweat before my 
 bandages have been touched. This 
 morning she came into the ward, bring- 
 ing me plums and two eggs and a pot 
 of wine-colored jelly. She is a beautiful 
 young woman. I am told she has lost 
 two brothers in the war, her husband 
 has been wounded, and her mother only 
 lately escaped from the invaded part 
 of France. 
 
 The fellow in bed beside me is a big 
 chap — a gunner — wounded the 21st 
 of July in the ankle. 
 
 Last night I slept very well because 
 I tried an entirely new position. / slept 
 on my wounded leg! Yes, with a great 
 effort I turned the zinc box completely 
 over on its side and threw my left leg 
 over the box; then, arranging my stom- 
 ach and chest, I fell asleep. I can't 
 guess what the position did to the 
 wound. It may have split it wide open, 
 164 
 
^A^ AMERICAN POILU 
 
 but anyway I slept. Cherie, I hope 
 you will never have to sleep with your 
 leg strapped into a zinc "gutter." 
 
 Devotedly, 
 E. 
 
 Hopital Complementaire 37, 
 Salle 2, Laval, Mayenne. 
 
 July 29, 1918. 
 Cherie — 
 
 Yesterday a beautiful happening — 
 but you would have to be a poor hlesse 
 in a poor military hospital to feel all 
 its beauty. I arrived here three days 
 ago — without even a handkerchief — 
 without even a pair of trousers, and 
 yesterday morning before eight o'clock 
 the door of the long ward opened and in 
 a haze I saw Captain Pierre coming 
 towards me, followed by a man carry- 
 ing a large straw case. My Captain, 
 who was wounded in a hospital at 
 Dinard, was actually standing by my 
 bed — it was too beautiful to be real. 
 
 But it was Pete — a little pale — a 
 165 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 little bending under his wounded shoulder. 
 He had received a letter — a word — 
 from me the day before, and regardless 
 of doctors, wounds and a threatened 
 operation, he had traveled all day — slept 
 on a miserable sofa all night (the only 
 place he could find in Laval) — and 
 was come to see me early in the morn- 
 ing. He brought me everything I need 
 — and candy and cigarettes and ham 
 and toilet paper. And he told me he 
 would send a cable to H. and already 
 he had written to Paris to hear if it 
 will be possible for me to be transferred 
 to his hospital at Dinard. And, Cherie, 
 when you are wounded — in bed — a 
 leg strapped into a gutter — and very 
 tired — a visit of this kind is a beautiful 
 happening. I shall never forget it. He 
 told me about his wounds ; the one in 
 his leg is already nearly healed (he was 
 wounded June 12th, you knpw) but 
 the shoulder wound doesn't heal and 
 another operation is necessary. If you 
 feel like it write him a letter — it would 
 166 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 please him very much — and we know 
 the days are terribly long in a hospital. 
 Mme. S. and N. have been angels to 
 him. 
 
 How beautiful it must be at their 
 villa this midsummer — flowers all over 
 the place and the whole reflected in the 
 sea ! But for all the summer — the 
 beauty — no one in France is gay — far 
 from it ; the weight of the multitude 
 of sufferers is in the air. The recent 
 attacks of Foch have filled the hospitals 
 to overflowing. But what a splendid 
 check for the Bodies ! July 21st was 
 for me a great orgy of pleasure ; I 
 thought it of course my last day and I 
 insisted on enjoying it. The amount 
 of death flying around was fantastic, 
 but I didn't have a moment's hint of 
 fear. I forgot everything in the world 
 but my desire to advance, and we did 
 advance regardless of shell and bullet. 
 I was standing when I was wounded, 
 and for a moment thought I had merely 
 been hit by a flat stone. 
 167 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 Your spirit is around my bed all the 
 
 time. I feel it. 
 
 Devotedly, 
 E. 
 
 Hopital Complementaire 37, 
 Salle 2, Laval, Mayenne. 
 
 August 7, 1918. 
 
 Your night before the Fourth letter 
 arrived to-day, Cherie. 
 
 You wonder what I am doing. I 
 remember my night before the Fourth. 
 I was drinking too much white wine 
 with a group of American soldiers. We 
 were in a weird old cottage on the out- 
 skirts of the town in which I was can- 
 tonned. The cafes were closed — it was 
 late, but somehow we had discovered 
 this miserable sort of kitchen, and there 
 we sat and asked each other, "Where 
 do you come from in America?" I 
 remember we were all delightfully "lit 
 up" and sang and flirted with the horrible 
 old bone and rag who provided us with 
 the brew that cheers. 
 168 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 Well, naturally, I was very tired the 
 morning after — the morning of the glori- 
 ous Fourth — and, as there were no 
 exercises for our company, I was aston- 
 ished at five o'clock to hear all my com- 
 rades getting up and calling to me to 
 do the same. It was unheard of in 
 our section. I got up ignorant and 
 sleepy and amazed. I stepped out to 
 the table where our meals are served 
 (under a charming tumble-down shelter) 
 and, behold, a Fourth of July fete 
 arranged in my honor by my blessed 
 little comrades. A fete of flowers — 
 a gorgeous bouquet in a broken pot on 
 the table (two fellows had left the straw 
 before daybreak and pillaged a garden) 
 and on the old rear wall — a wall golden 
 with age and early light — a huge fan 
 of bluets, daisies and poppies. It was 
 patriotic and handsome. " Vive VAme- 
 riquef' and we drank our morning coffee. 
 
 Do you feel how charming it was of 
 my poilus to "fix" that up for me? 
 
 That evening was our fete — wine 
 169 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 and song and laughter in the brown barn 
 that grew to me, before the dinner was 
 over, to seem Hke a magical boat of 
 romance, hallucinated and detached, 
 floating away in the exquisite summer 
 night. Already, how long ago that merry 
 evening; everything recedes so rapidly. 
 Some of those singing chaps are dead ; 
 I remember their faces — their open 
 mouths. Most of the others, like me, 
 are wounded. 
 
 Your letters are still too old-fashioned, 
 as I might say, to seem contemporary 
 and real. I want the next '* batch." 
 
 E. 
 
 August 17, 1918. 
 Hopital 37, Laval, Mayenne. 
 
 Beloved Mother — 
 
 Lieutenant Hunault (he now com- 
 mands the Seme Compagnie and is, by 
 the way, a great friend of mine) has 
 forwarded my second citation. You will 
 remember my first was from the Regi- 
 170 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 ment ; this one comes from the Division. 
 Well, I am very proud and I hope you, 
 to celebrate (it was life or death you 
 know), will explode another bottle of 
 ginger ale. But first read the citation. 
 (It means another star on my Croix 
 de Guerre.) 
 
 H — , E — , Citoyen americain engage 
 dans Varmee frangaise. Agent de trans- 
 mission entre son Cd. de Cie. et les sec- 
 tions avancees, a accompli remarquablement 
 sa mission malgre des feux extremement 
 violents de mitrailleuses, a donne un bel 
 exemple de sangfroid et de courage. 
 Grievement blesse le 21 juillet, 1918. 
 Citation a Vordre de la Division 
 No. 366 du 5 aout 1918 
 
 (Signe) Bremont. 
 
 Do you know what time it is? Six 
 o'clock in the morning. The ward is 
 sound asleep, excepting Number 42. The 
 windows are all tightly closed, of course, 
 it being a French hospital, and the 
 air is putrid, but, through the window, 
 171 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 I can smell the dew on the garden. The 
 lower leaves of the young horse-chestnut 
 tree are brilliant gold. Apollo has one 
 leg out of bed. Five hours later he 
 will stick his yellow head into your 
 windows and Norkie will begin to chirp, 
 chirp. At seven o'clock Grandmere will 
 come in and twenty heads (some ban- 
 daged like badly wrapped mummies — 
 an eye, a nose, "^n panne") will pop 
 up from twenty cots and cry ''^ Bon 
 Jour, Grandmere.''' Then the blesse near- 
 est the window will reach out with a 
 crutch and open the casement, and gold, 
 dew, leaves, garden, morn, fragrance 
 will rush in and chase the sleep out of 
 the ward. 
 
 Coffee comes in a huge green tin jug 
 (not very clean, I fancy). Behold an- 
 other day inaugurated ! 
 
 Devotedly, 
 E. 
 
 172 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 August 17, 1918. 
 Hopital 37, Laval, Mayenne. 
 Cherie — 
 
 I was surprised that the vaguemestre 
 brought me no letters from you to-day. 
 Just why I was so certain to receive 
 a letter from you to-day I don't know, 
 but on coming to this morning I felt 
 in my "bones" I should hear from you 
 either at nine o'clock or at four. The 
 vaguemestre came in at nine and four 
 bringing his bag of letters ; the names 
 were cried out — but mine was not 
 mentioned. So much for my "bones"! 
 I consoled myself (I wasn't at all sad) 
 by sticking my nose deeper into that 
 most charming of all books "Le Crime 
 de Sylvestre Bonnard", and therein I 
 read, ''Chacun fait a sa maniere le reve 
 de sa vie'\ and, '' Rien nexiste que ce 
 qu'on imagine'', and the afternoon 
 dwindled as summer afternoons do, and 
 supper came in and was eaten. And now 
 I will go for a walk around the ward. 
 173 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 The crutches are at hand — I mount 
 them — and stamp — scuff — stamp — 
 scuff — I go into the center of the big 
 room. The stamp is the crutch, the 
 scuff is my one sHppered foot. The 
 comrades are watching me from their 
 pillows. It is so miserably dull here. 
 The light is failing. I should like to 
 do something to amuse everybody, to 
 start a laugh. Without saying a word, 
 I let both crutches bang to the floor 
 and by the grace of God and considerable 
 will and pain, I continued to walk as 
 though I had suddenly been cured by 
 a miracle. A howl of laughter rings 
 from the pillows. I have succeeded in 
 making them laugh and also assured 
 myself that I shall in time be as strong 
 on my legs as I was before Fritz shot 
 me. I say walked, but it was more 
 of a rabbit hop than a walk; but I 
 held my head in the air as though 
 going down the Rue de la Paix — and 
 my point was gained — the fellows 
 laughed. 
 
 174 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 Will the vaguemestre bring your letter 
 to-morrow ? Yes, I feel it in my "bones." 
 
 E. 
 
 August 21, 1918. 
 Hopital 54, Dinard, Ille et Vilaine. 
 
 Cherie — 
 
 A month ago to-day Fritz sent his 
 bullet into my leg ; a month ago to-day 
 you wrote a beautiful letter to Pete. 
 (It arrived this morning and I have 
 explained for him the difference between 
 your y's and f's.) Strange to think 
 how differently you and I were occupied 
 on July 21st. Well, I must tell you 
 how I got here. As you know, Pete re- 
 ceived a permit from Paris, and later (last 
 Sunday) the doctor in Laval received 
 an order allowing me to be sent to 
 Dinard. I made the trip alone, with 
 a pair of brilliantly varnished yellow 
 crutches and a pea-green chintz bag 
 on my arm. Other ways I was a droll 
 figure. My shoes were new and nigger- 
 175 
 
^A^ AMERICAN POILU 
 
 ish (light tan), my trousers were stiff 
 cotton khaki, my coat was my blue 
 uniform coat, only in cleansing away 
 the stain of battle it had become a 
 small baby's ulster — I wore a little 
 blue hat on my head — three days' 
 beard and the Croix de Guerre (its 
 first appearance). 
 
 I had the devil's own time getting 
 in and out of the trains (the crutches 
 are so stiff), which I was forced to do 
 often, as nothing goes directly from 
 Laval to Dinard (except thoughts). I 
 made three changes. However, men and 
 women of all sorts and conditions called 
 out like angelic conductors, "Make place 
 for the wounded poilu!" and helped 
 me and my crutches in and out. Every- 
 body wanted to carry my chintz bag, 
 but I held to it like any other old lady. 
 Whenever I saw my shoes, I was fright- 
 ened. The leg ached somewhat and 
 children in the train walked on it, but 
 I was so glad to be on my way to Dinard 
 that I merely smiled to myself and the 
 176 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 children. A nun jumped over it when 
 she left the coach at Dinan. It barred 
 the passage. Afterward a huge fishwife 
 with a big basket of chickens got in and 
 nearly broke "it" in two by resting her 
 basket on it. All this began at Laval 
 (one o'clock) and ended after dark (nine- 
 thirty) at Dinard. The afternoon was 
 lovely and I saw the night come over 
 the summer fields. I was content and 
 happy. 
 
 Pete the unfailing (it was his first 
 day out after the second operation) was 
 at the station to meet me, and also N. 
 dressed for a ball. She insisted that 
 on my way to the hospital I stop for a 
 moment at the Villa, only for a moment 
 to say good-evening to F. She drove 
 away in her carriage and Pete and I 
 followed in ours. The door burst open 
 and F., so beautifully dressed, was hold- 
 ing out her hands to welcome me. The 
 light behind her seemed unnaturally 
 brilliant — and I went in — crutches, 
 green bag and all. The house looked 
 177 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 like an apartment in fairyland — dancers 
 and flowers and light. We went to the 
 glittering dining room (so gorgeous after 
 Salle L) and drank cold champagne. 
 The garden, the sea outside, were a fete 
 of moonbeams. It was to me enchant- 
 ing, but I was trembling between my 
 two crutches. 
 
 At the hospital Pete had arranged 
 everything for me. It is paradise here 
 and we are as happy as two poets. 
 By great good fortune, I am in his 
 large chamber (only for officers) in a 
 beautiful white bed (forbidden to move 
 for two weeks) and by my side a win- 
 dow — a window looking on to the 
 sea, and the tides moving in and out, 
 and the moon coming up, and the bathers 
 in rose and blue and lilac, and the 
 esplanade like a walking garden of hats 
 and parasols. It is too beautiful to be true 
 and I am the luckiest blesse in Europe. 
 
 Pete's wound is as large as your 
 hand and still causing him pain, but he 
 is so happy I'm here. My wound is 
 178 
 
^A^ AMERICAN POILU 
 
 as large as your other hand and my heel 
 is in a bandage, but I am as happy as 
 Pete. Each morning we are ordered 
 to expose our wounds (they are really 
 horrid) to Apollo's golden eye. We do 
 so and drink white port. When the 
 sun is gone from our window the Head 
 Nurse comes in and wraps us up in 
 oceans of cotton wool and we remain 
 quiet for the rest of the day. N. and 
 F. and C. come in and leave us like two 
 old veterans in a fruit and flower shop. 
 To-night at my dinner hour, F.'s Jeanne 
 appeared, bringing a marvelous fish 
 marvelously cooked in herbs and butter. 
 We have wine and jam and cheese in 
 our wardrobe. The hospital food is very 
 good. But the window ! A poem of 
 sea and sky. I look up from my paper — 
 the moon is over the villa and the waves 
 are coming in like rollicking silver kit- 
 tens. Cherie, I'm tired or I would not 
 send you these empty pages. 
 
 Forever, 
 E, 
 179 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 September 2, 1918. 
 Hospital, Dinard. 
 Cherie — 
 
 The air to-day is crystal. As I look 
 out from my pillows across the empty 
 beach to the white hotel and the villas 
 and the green gardens and trees and 
 pale sky and few clouds, I seem to be 
 looking at a miraculous landscape pre- 
 served under glass. It is so still — so 
 clear — so impersonal. September is the 
 secret, I fancy. The light in her eyes 
 is other than that of August's. I think 
 September originally hailed from Doric 
 countries — there's a sense of Greek 
 marbles in her luminosity — something 
 of the arms of Venus and morn-dew 
 on the laurel and myrtle. September 
 is a serene arch through which Summer 
 passes, saying good-by. The air is 
 hushed to catch the word — even the 
 sea is still. 
 
 However, all this is not what I was 
 going to say. Let me tell you some- 
 180 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 thing that will make you feel uncom- 
 fortable (for a second, because it's all 
 over now as you read). The Head 
 Nurse began this morning to "pull my 
 leg" under the conviction that by doing 
 so daily, she will help me to regain that 
 extreme suppleness (in my wounded limb) 
 so greatly admired once by my dancing 
 partners. As you very well know, my 
 leg has been pulled many times, but, 
 God knows, I was never so conscious 
 of the act as I was this morning. It is 
 terrible and the nurse is a heartless minx. 
 Slowly she bends it back, slowly she 
 straightens it out while I grind my teeth 
 and sweat, Pete, sitting with his wound 
 in the morning sunshine, looked as though 
 he wanted to stick a long knife into the 
 nurse's back as she proceeded to torture 
 me. The doctor looked at my wound 
 before the pulling began and said it was 
 "doing" beautifully. To me it has the 
 air of a very sick oyster. However, 
 the doctor has a professional eye and I 
 believe he is informed. 
 181 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 While I was still limp avec douleur and 
 the nurse was walking out of the room 
 with Pete's invisible knife sticking in 
 her back and an air of having done 
 something agreeable, Mrs. P. and her 
 lovely sister came in, bringing us illus- 
 trated papers, smiles, books and a heav- 
 enly odor. They are the only angels, so 
 far, who have "caught on" to our literary 
 "tastes," God bless 'em (not the tastes 
 but the ladies). Four volumes — "La 
 Vie Litteraire" of Anatole France, and 
 a "Student at Arms" by Donald Hankey. 
 
 Mrs. P. spoke of Hankey as though 
 she had fed him from her breast, but I 
 know she has never seen him. But 
 such is the power of a man in his book. 
 Turning his pages I immediately had a 
 feeling of something like love for Hankey 
 myself. I hope acquaintance won't 
 change the feeling. I wonder how Han- 
 key liked Anatole France ? (Hankey 
 is dead somewhere in Flanders.) No 
 matter, they are together, in print, on 
 my table, along with my pipe, the manu- 
 18:2 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 script of "Dear Emily" and a cablegram 
 from H. The latter came this early 
 morning and brought as much pleasure 
 as the nurse brought pain — and that's 
 saying a good deal. However, the pain is 
 gone and the cablegram is still on my table. 
 Cherie, I'm not for the moment a 
 serene arch through which to pass, but 
 like Summer, I must say good-by. 
 
 E, 
 
 Sepi ember 3d, 1918. 
 Hospital 54, Diiiard. 
 Cherie — 
 
 Yesterday I heard all day a sharp 
 clipping sound in the little parklike 
 garden under our sea window. Pete 
 told me a man was cutting the hedge. 
 To-day he is burning his trimmings — 
 the air is fragrant with the odor — it 
 mingles with Neptune's salty breath. 
 I close my eyes and dream of pirates' 
 bonfires by autumnal shores of perilous 
 seas. I dream of October gardens — 
 Summer burning her old clothes. Sum- 
 183 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 mer? How quickly she has played her 
 part this year. I've hardly been aware 
 of her. A man without a garden knows 
 nothing about summer. Now and again 
 I've been conscious of flowers — those 
 of my first battlefield, I shall never 
 forget — but flowers as a sign of long- 
 summer months — of thin coats and 
 straw hats — of picnics and breathless 
 nights — of all that I've had no hint. 
 A little while ago I was writing of the 
 icicle fringe on the "green chalet" and 
 then of the coming of spring to Roville 
 — then June and the battlefield flowers, 
 and now the peppery smell of burning 
 leaves is in the air. 
 
 It would be a pity to live intensely 
 all one's life, the beauty of the "game" 
 would go by quite unnoticed. It was 
 always November at Croisset, when Flau- 
 bert lived there. He couldn't see the 
 sunset for Emma — she kept his eyes 
 riveted to his pen. One must be a 
 lazybones to do justice to a cloud, a 
 wave or a bouquet of flowers. I saw 
 184 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 a bouquet of flowers lately — in fact 
 I lived with it for a week (a blessS could 
 easily be mistaken for a lazybones). 
 An old lady brought it to Pete ; she 
 had gathered it from her ancient garden 
 and she had arranged it. Hawaiian 
 fans and Chinese lanterns were pale be- 
 side it — orange- vermilion, blue — pied, 
 striped, freckled — it was gorgeous as 
 an embroidery. Its double blazed in 
 our mirror. There were stiff rosettes 
 from an Arabian dancer's headdress — 
 there were coral things that hung aside 
 like long earrings — there were full-blown 
 circles turning their backs — there were 
 little moons painted by Veronese — and 
 bells of wine color and blood color ; there 
 were feathery things that trailed and 
 escaped — and clusters of little butterfly 
 wings crowded together — and spotted 
 tongues and shining swords and enamel 
 paints and emerald sprays — and over 
 it all an atmosphere of long ago — of 
 I don't know what — quiet old parlors 
 and lovely old gardens. It lived with 
 185 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 us for a week and we were sorry when 
 the Head Nurse said it was dead. 
 
 Do you find my letter strange ? It 
 has been interrupted several times. 1st. 
 By a charming young lady come to see 
 Pete. She was blondly beautiful. Her 
 husband has been a prisoner in Germany 
 since three years. Her little boy has 
 never seen his father (I often think war 
 is harder on the women than on the men). 
 2nd. A yellow canoe appeared on the 
 high tide — it was charming — we 
 watched it for a long time. 3rd. Jeanne 
 came in bringing a family ice-cream 
 freezer for our dinner — the first ice 
 cream I've had this summer. 4th. La 
 soupe. 5th. Le communique — the Eng- 
 lish are working well. And now it is twi- 
 light — an inter-tissue of gold and pearls. 
 I'm always thoughtless after dinner — 
 I smoke my pipe — through its gray 
 v/reaths I smile at you and say good-by. 
 
 E. 
 
 This isn't a letter. I send you a 
 bouquet. 
 
 186 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 September 5th, 1918. 
 
 Hopital 54, Dinard. 
 Dear Mother — 
 
 Don't expect this is to be an agreeable 
 or an interesting or a hopeful letter 
 It cannot be. The rolling splendors of 
 the world are, for me at this moment 
 growing black. Why.? Give ear — I'm' 
 smoking my last pipe. No more tobacco. 
 The rmgs vanishing over my nose are 
 melancholy as funeral bells. My last 
 pipe! \Miat shall I do this evening 
 after la soupe? Heaven help me. I've 
 warned Pete to be prepared for a violent 
 change in my deportment. I shall, being 
 smokeless, become, I'm sure, both pain- 
 fully irritating and sickeningly pessi- 
 mistic. It's no joke. I'm irritated now, 
 reahzmg my last pipe is between my 
 lips. Since the dawn cracked a hired 
 man has scoured Dinard trying to buy 
 tobacco at any price in any form ; not 
 a leaf or the dust of one was to be found. 
 Hearing this deadly report, I tearfully 
 inquired if I might be given an old willow 
 187 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 chair or a dose of ether. They laughed 
 at me. To-night will be awful. I pity 
 the gentle Captain and the Head Nurse. 
 However for the moment I'm smoking, 
 and while this fleeting paradise is under 
 my nose I do wrong to groan over tor- 
 ments to come. Perhaps — straw to a 
 sinking sailor — perhaps N. will come 
 in later bringing a five-cent package. 
 Wliy did I ever offer a comrade a cigar- 
 ette ? I recall days, weeks even, when 
 I was positively burdened with tobacco. 
 This moment sees me reduced to a burn- 
 ing thimbleful. The Lord giveth, the 
 Lord taketh away ! 
 
 Well, what is there to write al^out.^^ 
 My window .f* It is a holiday picture 
 — muslin and silk on the shingle — kids 
 building castles in the sand — bathers 
 playing leapfrog — gentlemen in white 
 duck sitting on camp stools, smoking. 
 The tide is out — he rolls on Nahant 
 beach — the villas opposite have let 
 down their awnings ; they look like quiet 
 ladies reading novels. 
 188 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 On the hotel balcony a group of 
 American soldiers sit with their feet 
 on the railing. They are smoking. If 
 you wish to think I refer to their feet 
 as smoking you may. Feet — mine are 
 gradually becoming normal. The week 
 of marching before the attack of July 
 21st was a tragedy for my feet. My 
 toes all but didn't drop off. As far 
 as their smell pleased me, I should have 
 been only too glad if they had. 
 
 Mon Dieu, Mother, my pipe is burning 
 low. In a very few minutes it will be 
 finished and with it my hopes and my 
 happiness. Pete looks suddenly fright- 
 ened. Already I've prepared a nasty 
 remark for the Head Nurse when she 
 shall stick her disgusting face into the 
 room. What a hateful sight this win- 
 dow presents — stupid monkeys in mus- 
 lin and duck. These children should 
 be beaten for screaming so near a hospital. 
 Horrors ! my pipe is dead — 
 
 E. 
 
 189 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 P.S. Saved — no joking — N. has 
 come in and brought four dollars' worth 
 of English tobacco. She also brought 
 a large box of sardines and a most 
 charming gentleman — a painter — Mr, 
 Clifford Grayson. Ask M. if she knows 
 his work. Saved — saved — my pipe is 
 blazing like a foundry chimney. 
 
 E. 
 
 September 7th, 1918. 
 Hopifal 54, Dinard. 
 CJierie — 
 
 My letter of yesterday morning prom- 
 ised another — it was to be written after 
 breakfast. It wasn't — I've forgotten 
 what kept me out of the ink-pot. No 
 matter — I remember the subject — 
 something about gods and prayers on 
 the battlefield. Since being a blesse, 
 spending these long days in bed, I've 
 thought about God and prayers and 
 wondered why, when the horrors of 
 a modern battlefield were around me 
 as thick as August flies, the thought 
 190 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 to pray never crossed my mind. Some- 
 how, I find this strange. The night 
 of June 11th, when I rolled up in a blanket 
 beside Pete in the bombarded ravine, 
 would have been a natural moment to 
 pray — instinctively. Comfort either 
 physical or spiritual was at a premium. 
 I could so easily have made a good 
 prayer that night — but I didn't think 
 about it. Strange. Same omission July 
 20th. That awful night before the at- 
 tack — on the battlefield before Soissons 
 
 — exliausted and depressed — I never 
 thought of praying for whatever prayer 
 might give me. I wonder where a man 
 must be in order to pray — like a savage 
 I was going to say — to pray blindly, 
 recklessly almost — in his need for com- 
 fort. I certainly needed comfort that 
 night, and wouldn't have been at all 
 fussy from whence it came. It rained 
 
 — our ditch was muddy — we were hun- 
 gry — exhausted — struck — why didn't 
 I pray ? I would have had I thought to 
 
 — why didn't I think of it.? I slept a 
 
 191 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 little — at one o'clock we were told to 
 cock our guns and fall into line. 
 
 The atmosphere of that hour was 
 criminal. A village burning away off 
 put a baleful flicker in the landscape. 
 The dead, friendly and otherwise, hud- 
 dled under foot — odd shadows on which 
 we were careful not to step. Now and 
 again a rocket burst overhead — deli- 
 cate white flowers floating dreamily. 
 The enemy was looking for us. I had 
 an especial horror of these rockets. 
 
 "Well, old man, how do you feel?" 
 I said to the fellow beside me — Francois 
 Le Breton. "My star," he answered, 
 "I trust in my star." And there is 
 the nearest approach to a religious senti- 
 ment that I've ever heard from a soldier. 
 Soldiers are fatalists. Chance is the 
 fighting man's God. Take your chance 
 and advance (as though Chance were 
 an ivory image carried in one's pocket) 
 is an honest parting message to a 
 soldier. "Good chance" they call one 
 to another. 
 
 192 
 
^A^ AMERICAN POILU 
 
 During the infernal barrage — day- 
 break, July 21st — I was vividly con- 
 scious of Chance — my Chance — my 
 protector — scurrying around me. It 
 was something with abnormally long 
 legs — it was male — so much is cer- 
 tain ; vaguely I think it was more like 
 a devil in appearance than an angel, 
 but it may have been a man-angel 
 whose face was tortured by excitement. 
 Anyway, I knew it for Chance and knew 
 also it was working to save me. I did 
 nothing — I left it all to Chance. In 
 fact there was absolutely nothing for 
 me to do — our orders being to remain 
 in the rut until word came to advance. 
 Chance worked like a Trojan — like 
 a mad Trojan ; I watched him, slightly 
 amused — he reminded me of a jump- 
 ing-jack, his legs were so long and active. 
 The thicker the high explosives the 
 calmer I became. I examined the peb- 
 bles in the rut — I quietly bandaged 
 the wounds of a man who fell nearly 
 on top of me. Chance was straddling 
 193 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 around — this side, that side, over me — 
 Hke a maniac. 
 
 "I'm still alive, I'm still alive," I said 
 aloud, perhaps to tell Chance not to 
 lose heart ; perhaps I fancied he might 
 miss sight of me — the air was so murky 
 with powder and flying dirt — and mis- 
 take another soldier for me. The tanks 
 went by — I saw them in the wild light 
 of a terrible explosion. My dear Lieu- 
 tenant called ''En avant^^ — his voice 
 was raw. I was glad to be on my feet — 
 I was tremendously alive — it was almost 
 sexual. 
 
 Then in the demoniacal turnip field 
 I saw the God of War — and I saw 
 Death ; he was a crumpled thing dressed 
 in blue and green and khaki — a mist 
 was on his back. Chance, I distinctly 
 realized, had left me. His parting words 
 were "Now, E., you must scuffle for 
 yourself." I didn't see him again until 
 two hours later. After I received my 
 bullet and was told to get to the rear 
 if possible, I met him again. He was 
 194 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 before me, looking over his shoulder — 
 kept zigzagging the path — now to the 
 right, now to the lef t — as the "mar- 
 mites" fell now here, now there. My 
 faith in him during that return was com- 
 plete. He was my God. I walked tran- 
 quilly behind him — and he gently dis- 
 appeared as I neared the Poste de Se- 
 cours. Other gods — Fatigue and Pain 
 — took me in charge — relatively merry 
 gods. Cherie, you think this all a 
 fancy — a joke ? Its every word is out 
 of my deepest consciousness. 
 
 Devotedly, 
 E. 
 
 Dinard. 
 September 22, 1918. 
 Dear Mother — 
 
 My decor is at this minute worth 
 mentioning. It is nine o'clock and I'm 
 in bed, of course. Pete is also in bed 
 with a newspaper. We have just come 
 in from a day at the Villa. The decor 
 is outside the window but the room 
 195 
 
^.V AMERICAN POILU 
 
 is brilliant with it — it is a kind of glad 
 fury. The tide, the moon — both are 
 full. The highest tide of the year, I've 
 been told. Riding home by the digue 
 we saw the crowd watching, in the moon- 
 light roar ; we hear the cries of admira- 
 tion as roller after roller explodes on 
 the sea wall. In the brocaded blueness 
 I see the clouds of spray like an apple 
 orchard in bloom. I think of the lines 
 of a poem I read recently (in French 
 but I write in U. S.). 
 
 *'The sea is more beautiful 
 Than the cathedrals." 
 
 The other day a poilu asked me in all 
 seriousness if my father had spoken 
 United States. I think he thought he 
 may have used the lovely language of 
 Minnehaha. I answered without a smile 
 that my father was born in England, 
 but my mother was a Redskin whom my 
 father met while trapping bears. He 
 bored me by beginning to talk of the 
 "Last of the Mohicans." 
 196 
 
^iV AMERICAN POILU 
 
 Monday Morning — Dear Mother — 
 I don't know whether it was the 
 sea or my pedigree that knocked the 
 pen out of my hand last night. Any- 
 way, the pen fell from my hand and I 
 dropped asleep. Did I dream of Diane 
 and Neptune? I did not. Well, the 
 tide is at flood again and the sun is 
 playing the moon's part — golden ex- 
 plosions over the sea wall. I'm cold. 
 My feet are frozen. You see I am 
 exposing my wound. It's a tiny little 
 red eye now which should heal over in 
 no time but, being placed as it is directly 
 in the bend of the knee, we don't know 
 when it will heal. Its tardiness irri- 
 tates me. 
 
 Pete will go before I do and I shall 
 be miserable again. I fancy they will 
 move me out of this beautiful chamber. 
 And for how long I shall be swinging 
 around on these crutches I don't know. 
 I'm getting quite expert with them now 
 and appear at teas and dinners like 
 any other well-meaning quadruped. A 
 197 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 very stiff leg and a handsome pair of 
 crutches help to "make" a drawing 
 room. The crutches love "to go." 
 
 Devotedly, 
 
 E. 
 
 Dinard. 
 September 26, 1918. 
 Cherie — 
 
 In order to make room for our recent 
 high tides tlie Nile-green cabins were 
 dragged beyond the shingle. This was 
 three or four days ago and I notice 
 they have not been put back again. This 
 is a real sign that summer is over. The 
 colored gayety of the beach has vanished. 
 My window is wanting in animation. 
 A few khaki soldiers playing baseball 
 on the rather khaki-toned sand do noth- 
 ing to enliven the scene. To be sure 
 this noon, when the waves were break- 
 ing near the sea wall, a few pink and 
 blue fellows went in for a swim, but I 
 fancy they were "huskies" hardening 
 their muscles. 
 
 198 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 It is autumn and a little quiet and 
 sad. I am sorry to find it gone — the 
 summer — for all it was a wounded 
 one. These weeks in hospital with Pete 
 and the window have been pleasant and 
 now winter yawns in our faces a trifle 
 discouragingly. How often our wounds 
 are blessings camouflaged. Winter — 
 my winter — is hidden in mystery. But 
 I was never frightened seriously by 
 mystery. I must go where I am 
 sent and do my best until the game 
 is over. 
 
 To-day a letter informs us that the 
 Seme Cie. has, as far as we knew it, 
 ceased to exist ; most of my comrades 
 are dead or wounded and the officers 
 changed for the same reasons. Pete's 
 wound has proved too slow in healing, 
 and his company has been taken by 
 another Captain. Of course this does 
 not mean that we may not be just as 
 happy and fortunate as we were last 
 winter. The letter told of another attack 
 in the vicinity of Noyon in which the 
 199 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 gas had proved extremely mortal for 
 our beloved 412me. I think I prefer 
 to be shot rather than gassed. Many 
 of the men were horribly burned — in 
 the face, under the arms, and between 
 the legs. Some were blinded. I see 
 that Germany is protesting against the 
 use of gas through the Swiss Red Cross. 
 The hypocritical beast ! She was the 
 first to use it. 
 
 If I am killed before the war ends I 
 hope you will send me a copy of the 
 peace contract. In doubt where, send 
 two copies — one to heaven. 
 
 By the way, I was once in Heaven. 
 I spent an afternoon there. At Beauvais, 
 on the operating table, naked as when 
 I was born, I slipped off the edge of 
 the world and when, some hours later, 
 I returned, I felt that I had been in 
 Heaven. Divine awakening — no mem- 
 ory record — but the health and serenity 
 of young temples around me. Surely 
 I had been somewhere that had done me 
 good. 
 
 200 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 This is rare, I have been told by nurses 
 and doctors, and my orderly experience 
 at Neuilly tells me also. Most men 
 return from anaesthesia in agony — strug- 
 gles — nausea — cries — terrors, etc. I 
 came out with the ease with which I im- 
 agine a white flower blooms. I felt like 
 new milk. ''Monsieur etait doux comme 
 un enfant,''^ said the nurse, when I asked 
 if I had behaved badly while unconscious. 
 The poor chap in the bed beside me at 
 Laval suffered unspeakable horror dur- 
 ing his operation and before regaining 
 consciousness. A whiff of ether made 
 him shudder. I was in Heaven, conse- 
 quently I love the smell of ether. 
 
 We talked of this the other day chez 
 Madame B. She is interested in theories 
 of reincarnation and she assured me 
 that I had been on the astral plane for 
 an afternoon. I was quite ready to 
 believe her. Monsieur B. made a pom- 
 pous bow and said, *' Mes felicitations, 
 mon cher ami.'* Well, after all, one is 
 helpless under ether. You remember 
 201 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 I paid for that outing some hours hiter 
 — and wept — and was rebuked. 
 
 Devotedly, 
 
 E. 
 
 Dinard. 
 September 27, 1918. 
 Cherie — 
 
 Yesterday the declejichement d^une of- 
 fensive in Champagne — twelve thousand 
 prisoners the first day means a brilliant 
 start. To-night the news that Bulgaria 
 has asked for an armistice. These are 
 items of good news as I write but old- 
 fashioned when you read them. A\Tiat 
 a powerful word dccJcncheinent! As I 
 recall our attack of July 21st, I feel the 
 force of the word. 
 
 The awful silence in which we crept 
 to our position of attack — the ugly 
 waiting for the expectant moment — the 
 demoniacal outroar when the bolt was 
 drawn and the hell was upon us. If the 
 city of New York should topple in 
 the sky and fall to the ground, the crash 
 202 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 would be like a whisper to the racket 
 of that dawn. I wonder that the entire 
 regiment didn't perish from the mere 
 sound alone. Its fury turned Jehovah's 
 wrath into a shepherd's piping, and ten 
 thousand Wagners, "ragging" ten thou- 
 sand orchestras, into the murmur of a 
 parlor seashell. But what's the use — 
 I only amuse myself — you can't hear 
 it. I've really forgotten myself how 
 monstrous it was. Memory cannot hold 
 so much noise. 
 
 The silence of the moon is incom- 
 parable — to-night. 
 
 I had just finished my supper this 
 evening when Mrs. C. T. came in to 
 *' cheer me up." She is working at the 
 Y. M. C. A. (called simply the Y.) and 
 talks a blue streak about "our dear 
 boys." She vows she loves each one 
 and finds each one singularly charming. 
 ''They are so clean, Mr. II. — and so 
 witt3\" The conversation dropped ele- 
 gantly into vermin. "We laughed about 
 lice. The war has ennobled the beastie. 
 203 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 One may discuss him at tea parties. He 
 "stalks" in between the empresses of 
 Germany and Russia. Like my com- 
 rades I've always called him "toto." 
 A charming pet name. One might in 
 ecstasy call his sweetheart ** To to." I 
 believe some "ones" do. Mrs. C. T. 
 informs me that "our dear boys" call 
 him " Cootie." The English soldiers call 
 him (but they are always plural) "seam 
 squirrels." I wonder what his name is 
 in the German trenches and the Austrian ? 
 And what does the Italian soldier say 
 when he scratches himself, etc. etc., even 
 to Mesopotamia ? Strangely enough I've 
 never yet been intimate with a " To to", 
 but I've seen my comrades chasing 
 him with a sort of Daniel Boone look in 
 their eyes. "Seam squirrels" is funny, 
 isn't it ? 
 
 Good night, 
 E. 
 
 204 
 
^A^ AMERICAN POILU 
 
 Sunday Ttvilight, Dinard. 
 
 September 29, 1918. 
 Dear Mother — 
 
 As you read "Sunday Twilight" do 
 you see an azure sky brocaded with 
 rosy and goldeny clouds (as though the 
 seraphs had hung out their ball dresses 
 for an airing) ? Do you see the shad- 
 owy villas going to sleep under the 
 September trees ? Do you hear the tide 
 coming in like a tired and complaining 
 child ? 
 
 How the days have dwindled ; no 
 more long evening poems after dinner — 
 and the sun is hardly up to light our 
 breakfast. Our charming summer has 
 disappeared and autumn has crept in 
 through the fence, staining the woodbine 
 red. Our charming summer ? Does that 
 sound selfish and forgetful ? Perhaps 
 — still I have seen Her in the gardens, 
 on the sands, in the sky, bathing in the 
 sea (you know how She does get about !) 
 and She has been so pretty. Once look- 
 205 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 ing into Her eyes the slaughter fields 
 seem far away, and one forgets his nar- 
 row escape. 
 
 I remember my first day here at 
 Dinard, looking at the beach brilliant 
 with holiday and sunshine, and I thought, 
 is it possible that only a day's journey 
 from here men are facing all the horrors 
 of battle? I couldn't believe it. A 
 month has only strengthened my un- 
 belief, and yet each day has been bloody 
 somewhere in France. To-night — in 
 this blue stillness (the seraphs are drag- 
 ging in their traps) — can it be possible 
 that that hell is going on — that hell 
 I know? How dare I say "charming 
 summer" ! However, against the black 
 curtain of war I have seen Her white 
 throat and blond curls — She has been 
 here — She has gone — and Her love- 
 liness has touched me. I came so near 
 losing Her — so near — A soldier is 
 indeed like a miser who counts lasciv- 
 iously each golden day that falls into 
 his hand. He knows their preciousness 
 206 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 — he is afraid to let one slide — it 
 may so easily be his last. 
 
 I fancy this is the reason that soldiers 
 are, as a rule, more reckless than post- 
 men or barbers. To follow the heel 
 of Death is to be sensitive to the clouds 
 that gather round the setting sun. I 
 have told you how we picked the flowers 
 while crouching in the wheat, waiting 
 for orders to advance. I knew I was 
 picking mere flowers, but most of my 
 comrades were picking whatever they 
 had known of charm and pleasure and 
 home. Had pictures been taken of their 
 brains they would have shown them 
 as dreamy poets rather than soldiers. 
 I think all soldiers are just what might 
 be called poets — which accounts for 
 their divine gentleness, tenderness, brav- 
 ery. The old stuff about drums and 
 bluster is nonsense pulled off in musical 
 comedy. I have seen, resting by the 
 roadside, my whole company grown sweet 
 as young girls. On the battlefield they 
 smiled at one another like sisters. 
 207 
 
^A^ AMERICAN POILU 
 
 Strange, isn't it? But what was I say- 
 ing about Summer ? Oh ! She has gone. 
 She was charming. I hope to meet Her 
 next year — 
 
 Devotedly, 
 E. 
 
 Dinard. 
 October 2, 1918. 
 Cherie — 
 
 How do you find time to read all my 
 letters.^ It seems to me you must be 
 dizzy picking them out of the vestibule. 
 I am becoming notorious and nothing 
 can stop me, I fear, but death or a 
 crise d'encre. But it chances to be my 
 "soul's pleasure" to write — to write 
 letters. A solid form of literature — 
 a book for example — would bore me, 
 but letters are so easy, so elastic, so 
 ready to turn in my hand. Upside 
 down, head over heels, any old way. 
 And a letter has always its own excuse 
 — it's only a letter. No one really 
 egotistical would subject his more or 
 208 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 less precious thoughts to so dangerous 
 a life as that of a letter. 
 
 Between you and me lurk ten thousand 
 currents capable of sending this airy 
 page to limbo. Perhaps many of my 
 most careful scribbles have never reached 
 you, and there's a mutual satisfaction. 
 Yet (notice the slightly regretful *'yet") 
 — my letters are my best — my mark- 
 ings — my heart. I think as they do. 
 My days and night are on these lines. 
 Strange how we spin less than the field 
 spider. Like cobwebs hanging between 
 two grasses we (or they or I) need the 
 sun to make them shine. Sunday last 
 I said you were a golden bouquet; 
 to-night I ask you to be my sun. If 
 you will not be, my webs are for brooms 
 and dustpans. My ink runs easiest 
 toward you. In a mere kitchen glass 
 of water they say there are waves obeying 
 the moon. Do you agree to be my moon 
 also ? 
 
 If this pen keeps on, you will be busier 
 than President Wilson, Clemenceau and 
 209 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 Lloyd George all in a puddle. By the 
 way, what a magnificent speech our Wil- 
 son has just made. It should be the 
 Credo of all political bodies. He has 
 given the keystone to modern govern- 
 ments. I notice that it has made very 
 few comments in the European papers. 
 Perhaps it is too bright a flash for the 
 moment. Europe is so dusty. Imagine 
 the meaninglessness of the Hermes of 
 Praxiteles to the American Indians. 
 
 Pete has spent the day reading 
 maps — our four walls are covered with 
 them. 
 
 Devotedly, 
 E. 
 
 October 2, 1918. 
 Hospital, Dinard. 
 Dear Mother — 
 
 The last day of September we made 
 a great effort and went to St. Malo 
 to eat lobsters. We took N. to put a 
 charm over our greedy excursion. N. 
 is like you, always smiling and ready 
 210 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 for an outing. After half a century of 
 them she is still "game" for another. 
 
 We lost the white Vedetta by a hair 
 because the nurse was late in dressing 
 my wound, and so we were obliged to 
 wait on the windy jetty for half an hour 
 for the sailing of the green. She was 
 something like a teacup and the bay 
 was choppy. My boarding of her was 
 exciting — requiring the aid of three 
 hairy old salts — to say nothing of Pete 
 and N. Crutches were not made for 
 seafarers. 
 
 The weeny-teeny cabin was stuffy, 
 and although it's only a ten-minute 
 sail from Dinard to St. Malo I did not 
 care to think of eating lobster during 
 the voyage. Everything bobbed except 
 my stiff leg. Other hairy old salts helped 
 me on to terra firma. 
 
 We walked to a quaint little cafe 
 where, we had been told, the lobsters 
 were fresh. It was rather sad — that 
 little promenade along the sea road of 
 St. Malo. I was one of a dozen or more 
 211 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 poor blesses swinging on crutches. We 
 smiled at one another as though we were 
 bigger children playing on stilts. I rested 
 on a bench while some Boche prisoners 
 went by. There are many at St. Malo, 
 working on the docks. They disgust 
 me for all I know they are human and 
 unhappy. 
 
 There is a huge Y. M. C. A. hut at 
 St. Malo for the American permission- 
 naires. The crooked old streets were 
 full of them. 
 
 Well, the lobster was delicious and 
 I ate more than I should have eaten — 
 that is, for bodily comfort ; but, as I 
 told N., we were out on a spiritual spree 
 — the pursuit of a dream — which could 
 not be curtailed by the size of my 
 stomach. 
 
 But at last we all took my leg out 
 from under the table and put it into 
 an open carriage and went for a ride. 
 The driver was young and stupid and 
 the horse very old and quite mad — 
 suddenly stopping and backing down 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 hill. It began to rain so we spent a 
 pleasant and dangerous afternoon. 
 
 We sailed back to Dinard in another 
 teacup and I was in bed, tired as a dog, 
 at six o'clock. We succeeded in bringing 
 the lobster we had eaten with us and 
 perhaps that explains my dreams that 
 night. They were crimson, my dreams, 
 not with lobsters but with bloody sol- 
 diers. All my dreams (some horrors) 
 since July 21st are of battlefields. Re- 
 cently I had a letter from Lieutenant 
 H. in which he said he had dreamed the 
 previous night of our fighting the Boche 
 like demons. Interesting to think of 
 the dreams in a war hospital. Fancy 
 the curdling nightmares of wounded 
 men. 
 
 Yesterday we teaed at the Villa. F. 
 had brought from Jersey a lot of English 
 buns. Some charming American officers 
 were there. One, a lieutenant from 
 Philadelphia, was recovering from a 
 wound in the wrist. He was studying 
 theology when he entered the army and 
 213 
 
^iV AMERICAN POILU 
 
 was married three days before he sailed 
 for Europe. In a week he returns to 
 his regiment. I don't know why I tell 
 you all this. But he was such a nice 
 fellow. I hope he will escape again and 
 go home to his bride and his theology. 
 
 E. 
 
 October 6, 1918. 
 Hopifal 54, Dinard. 
 Dear Mother — 
 
 I've pulled out my pad and taken 
 up my pen more from habit than from 
 any special desire to write. Nothing 
 very much going on outside or inside 
 my head. The day is thin-blue, the 
 tide is out, the window in its dullest 
 mood. One or two or four doughboys 
 strolling on the beach, looking doubt- 
 lessly for summer. One or two or four 
 ladies strolling after them, looking for 
 meat and potatoes, perhaps. Doesn't 
 sound very gay, does it ^ 
 
 Pete is at the little table trying to 
 answer a letter received last March. 
 214 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 Of course I'm propped up In bed, writing 
 words from a background of thought- 
 lessness. And you, Cherie, what are 
 you doing, I wonder. I'm too lazy to 
 reckon what o'clock it may be in M. 
 
 Well, let me tell you about the "Queen 
 of Dinard." She is an American and 
 is eighty-eight years old and has reigned 
 here for half a century. She dresses 
 in pink velvet and her bonnets resemble 
 crowns. She dances and sings and holds 
 her court nightly. Half the cemeteries 
 of Europe have dined with her. She 
 was a famous beauty in the time of 
 Napoleon III and is still handsomer 
 than most of Eve's daughters. I have 
 heard of her since I first knew Paris. 
 A week ago I was presented — or rather 
 she was presented to me — or rather to 
 my stiff leg. 
 
 Mrs. P. gave a large tea and I accepted 
 an invitation. Wien I got into the 
 hall and heard the buzz I said to Pete, 
 "Perhaps I've done wrong to come on 
 crutches to an affair of this kind." 
 215 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 Mrs. P. was immediately by my side 
 and led me to the Salon and put me 
 down in one and my leg up in another 
 chair. A table covered with "tea" was 
 near at hand and the prettiest girl in 
 the party to entertain me. 
 
 The Queen arrived — everybody got 
 up (I was forbidden to) and she was 
 brought to me — presented and seated 
 in front of my leg. I was amazed by 
 her beauty and the sweetness of her 
 personality. She was like a flower left 
 on a tomb. She talked melodiously 
 while looking intensely at me, as though 
 she would take the youth out of my 
 face (thirty-six is young to eighty -eight). 
 I wanted to look quite as intensely at 
 her — to see how she had done it — but 
 of course I couldn't. She was a miracle 
 of camouflage. Her coffin (I mean her 
 carriage) was announced and away she 
 went, gentle as an old song, to a dinner 
 party, a dance, or her own lovely funeral. 
 Sitting in the embers of her departure 
 I heard my crutches say, "Pussy cat, 
 216 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 Pussy cat, where have you been ? I've 
 been to London to see the Queen." 
 Then we all went home. 
 
 E. 
 
 October 8, 1918. 
 Hopital 54, Dinard. 
 Beloved Mother — 
 
 This is your birthday and since I 
 awoke this early morning I've been 
 thinking what I could send you, as 
 a birthday gift. I want to send you 
 something charming like a lace handker- 
 chief or a basket of mauve sweetgrass or 
 a bouquet. I want to send you a gift 
 to show you I'm glad it is your birth- 
 day and that I've remembered the exact 
 date. But we are far apart and my arm 
 is shorter than my dreams. I can only 
 write you a gift. I have been thinking 
 what I could write. I have been look- 
 ing about into the mirror, up at the 
 ceiling, out of the rainy window for a 
 lovely idea for a gift for you. Mirror, 
 ceiling, window have nothing lovely 
 217 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 enough for you. I look into my mem- 
 ory — there I see a Queen, a Cathedral, 
 a wounded soldier. Yes, I say to my 
 pen, this Queen, this Cathedral, this 
 wounded soldier will do nicely for 
 mother's birthday gift. 
 
 The other day a very pretty lady 
 came to see me, who but lately had been 
 in London helping in a hospital all sum- 
 mer. She had taken care of some of 
 the wounded American soldiers. She 
 was enthusiastic about their marvelous 
 courage and gayety while enduring almost 
 daily suffering. ITer eyes filled with 
 tears as she told of one case — a giant 
 from Texas who had lost both legs and 
 both arms. A magnificent torso and 
 head were all the surgeons had saved. 
 This remnant of a Texas soldier was 
 the gayety of her ward. His drollerj^ and 
 jokes made the sad man who had lost 
 his left hand laugh. Every one loved 
 him. 
 
 A great service was to be celebrated 
 in St. Paul's for the American dead, 
 218 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 and the day before the soldier from 
 Texas told a visiting friend of his 
 desire to attend the solemnity. The 
 friend was only too happy to arrange 
 it, and did. 
 
 Imagine his entrance into the crowded 
 cathedral — a murmur at the doors — 
 a withdrawing — a hush. No bandage 
 or blanket could hide his disaster. He 
 was pushed down the quivering aisle. 
 The Queen — Queen Mary — said, 
 "Bring him here. His place is by my 
 side." 
 
 In the royal company, beside the 
 Queen, the soldier from Texas celebrated 
 the service for the dead. Long live 
 Mary of England ! 
 
 Dear mother, this is what I found 
 in my memory to send you for your 
 birthday gift. I hope it will please you. 
 I think it will. A gift is something that 
 makes the receiver richer. A sentiment 
 is lovely as pearls. A gift is a recogni- 
 tion, a tenderness, a perfume passing 
 from one to another. This story of 
 219 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 the Queen and the mutilated soldier 
 
 is just that — a gift ! 
 
 Devotedly, 
 
 E. 
 
 October 16, 1018. 
 Hopital 54, Dinard. 
 Dear Mother — 
 
 When I was helping at the American 
 Ambulance at Neuilly I remember I 
 never felt the slightest difficulty in re- 
 gard to facing the wounds — shocking, 
 appalling, disgusting as they so often 
 were. I recollect watching with almost 
 indifference the "dressings" — dressings 
 that must have been the white heat 
 of torture to the victims. I noted their 
 pinched-up foreheads and wild eyes. I 
 heard their teeth and their dry cries. 
 I felt their grip on my arm but it seems 
 to me now that I felt nothing — or 
 almost nothing — of all the agony then 
 around me. A horribly bad wound was 
 to me at that time rather fascinating. 
 
 Since July '21st my attitude has 
 220 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 changed. I dislike to see a comrade's 
 wound. To hear the cries through the 
 walls even strangles me. At Beauvais 
 I was suffering too keenly myself to 
 look about at the other fellows waiting 
 to be put on the dressing tables. I was 
 brought in and carried out, mindful 
 only of my own little hell in the general 
 disaster. I never cried aloud but I 
 clutched like a maniac at the man who 
 held me. But at Laval, my condition 
 having ameliorated, I was able — in fact 
 forced — to look about when daily I 
 was dressed in the salle de pansement. 
 Wliat I had found interesting at Neuilly 
 as an orderly I found almost unbearable 
 as a blesse at Laval. When I saw the 
 nurse was preparing to insert a 
 meche into a comrade's side, or wher- 
 ever, I had to close my eyes and think 
 of something else until his sigh died 
 away. 
 
 Have I never told you what a meche 
 is ? It is the devil's finger : in other 
 words it is a long narrow strip of cotton 
 221 
 
^A^ AMERICAN POILU 
 
 cloth wet with acid which, with the 
 help of pincers, the Heathen Deity (gen- 
 erally a smiling young girl) forces inch 
 after inch into your wound up to the 
 quick. It slightly reminds one of a 
 dentist's drill on an exposed nerve but, 
 really, the drill is nothing compared to 
 the meche. For a month I was treated 
 to the meche. Pete for a fortnight had 
 two in his shoulder wound. The fat 
 nice Cure who came now and again 
 to see us at Laval told he had seen a 
 wounded soldier with six. The Cure 
 said the hero recovered but I think the 
 Cure was mistaken. Three meches would 
 kill any man. 
 
 At Dinard I've been fortunate, hav- 
 ing seen very few wounds. The nurse 
 comes to our room to do our dressings. 
 But yesterday I did go to the salle de 
 pansement to have my scabby scar 
 washed. The room was crowded with 
 blesses waiting attention, their wounds 
 exposed. It was most painful to see. 
 The brutality of mangled flesh is awful. 
 222 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 One little man yelled a good deal while 
 
 the nurse dressed the raw place where 
 
 once his big toe had been. But he was 
 
 quiet when they carried him away. 
 
 In the afternoon I heard him singing. 
 
 His chamber is next ours. He sang 
 
 like a lark all the afternoon. I heard 
 
 later he was happy from having received 
 
 a letter from his wife. This morning 
 
 at five o'clock he was found dead in 
 
 his bed. 
 
 Devotedly , 
 
 E. 
 
 October 21, 1918. 
 Ilopital 54, Dinard. 
 Cherie — 
 
 If you have a memory and are a bit 
 of a sentimentalist you have laid my 
 plate at your dinner table to-night and 
 before drinking your wine thanked 
 Chance that I'm alive. This is almost 
 the anniversary of my death. Three 
 months ago this date I was covered 
 with blood and dirt and, exhausted 
 223 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 as a slave, was riding with a thousand 
 wounded comrades away from the front 
 toward Beauvais. 
 
 I've never told you about that train 
 journey, and I'm not going to now ; it 
 is too horrid to send in a letter. Not 
 only was I suffering with my wound — 
 not only was I tired to tears — but I was 
 burning with anger — with anger toward 
 every official I met — because every 
 official was so damnably rude. I was 
 shocked, pained, insulted, mad. We were 
 treated like dogs simply because we were 
 "common soldiers." And I forgot and 
 gave a "piece of my mind" and was 
 nearly arrested, wound and all. 
 
 Three months ago to-night by a mir- 
 acle I was not dead as Marley on that 
 demoniacal beet-field near the highroad 
 to Soissons — the highroad between Sois- 
 sons and Chateau-Thierry. We will go 
 there after the wa^ and I will show you 
 the hill on which I fell. 
 
 To-day the doctor examined my wound 
 and pronounced it healed and ordered 
 224 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 the cotton wool to be removed forever. 
 I say forever, but now he wishes to 
 watch the wound for ten days or so to 
 see that it does not reopen. He fears 
 it may. To-day the order for Pete's 
 removal arrived. In two days he will 
 leave me. We are both trying to be chic, 
 but we are both miserable. The change 
 for me is to be enormous. I lose every- 
 thing — Cest la guerre! But still I re- 
 member this night might have been the 
 anniversary of my death. 
 
 Devotedly, 
 E. 
 
 November 7, 1918. 
 Hopital Complementaire, No. 1, Rennes. 
 
 Clierie — 
 
 In order to get the story of my life 
 up to date I must write a very long letter. 
 We do not like long letters but I will 
 try to color it so as not to seriously bore 
 you, although the mere adventures of 
 my recent days seem to me quite as 
 225 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 romantic as a novel by Walter Scott. 
 I am certainly Fortune's darling ; good 
 luck follows me like a black demon or 
 a white angel or a tawny Newfoundland 
 dog. I can't escape the milk of human 
 kindness, and why this is so remains 
 my daily riddle. If either you or mother 
 can guess the answer, please write it 
 to me. But of course you can't, because 
 you and mother are part of the enigma. 
 But to begin my story : that I should 
 have been wounded so soon after the 
 Captain and after a little time sent to 
 him at Dinard was a miracle. Dinard 
 — all summer and blue sea; Dinard of 
 charming friends and books and the 
 healing wounds. Only one fly was in 
 our amber — the thought that in all 
 likelihood Pete's wound would heal before 
 mine and that he would be sent to the 
 east, and later when mine would be 
 healed I would be sent to the west. 
 Of course, being soldiers, we didn't 
 worry about this, still the prospect wasn't 
 agreeable, — a fly in the Dinard amber. 
 ^226 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 Pete's shoulder healed first and the 
 doctor said he was now ready to go to 
 Rennes for massage treatment. "And 
 Monsieur H.?" asked Pete. "Well, I 
 think he will be ready to follow you in 
 eight or ten days," answered the doctor. 
 By-the-way, the doctor was the thinnest, 
 slowest, gentlest man I've ever seen. 
 At the head of every hospital there is 
 an officer called "/e questionnaire.'" 
 Well, our Dinard ''questionnaire'', hear- 
 ing that the Captain was to leave before 
 the American, came to our room and 
 told Pete he was free to remain until his 
 friend was ready to go. Instantly, we 
 placed an invisible crown of expensive 
 roses on "/e questionnaire's'' head. He 
 was a fat little man and looked charm- 
 ingly droll wearing our wreath. 
 
 So Pete waited and the last raw spot 
 of my wound covered over and the 
 order came from Rennes and the day 
 of our departure arrived. Our train 
 would leave at four o'clock. We began 
 to pack our luggage soon after breakfast. 
 007 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 Of course we knew we were to be in sepa- 
 rate hospitals in Rennes, and I had been 
 told mine, Le Lycee, was a horror, but 
 at least we were to have the pleasure of 
 encountering the strange newness to- 
 gether, and no telling how much Pete 
 would be able to assist me. A poilu is 
 a poilu and a Captain is a Captain. 
 
 Pete bent over to put Walt Whitman 
 into the trunk, and on straightening 
 up he gave a cry and fell down in a heap. 
 I ran to him, helped him on to the bed, 
 and called the Head Nurse. The doctor 
 came and pronounced it an acute attack 
 of lumbago. For an hour his suffering 
 was intense and, naturally, we knew 
 it would be impossible for him to go 
 to Rennes that day. "He might be 
 confined to his bed for a week," the 
 doctor said. "What a horrid joke," 
 we thought, "after he had waited for 
 me, and now after all I must go alone." 
 
 "Never," said Pete, "I leave to-mor- 
 row, lumbago or no lumbago." 
 
 We turned him on his belly and off 
 228 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 and on, for the next twentj^-four hours, 
 the Head Nurse, La Comtesse de Mad- 
 rid, and I massaged his back. (As a 
 matter of fact he has since learned the 
 attack was not hmibago but a case of 
 exhausted nerves caused by his wound. 
 He has had four severe operations, you 
 know.) 
 
 The following day he insisted on getting 
 up. We got our traps together and 
 took the four o'clock train for Rennes. 
 I walked like a cripple, Pete walked 
 like a tired old man. We were obliged 
 to change trains three times. There 
 was no one to lend a hand. We were 
 covered with luggage, bags and bags 
 and coats and canes and a huge sword. 
 However, we managed, and in a hotel 
 near the station (a very smelly hotel) 
 we found two good beds, got into them 
 and slept like a couple of judges. The 
 next day we proposed to steal for a 
 holiday, that is, we would not appear 
 at our hospitals until twenty-four hours 
 later. 
 
 229 
 
^iV AMERICAN POILU 
 
 Rennes is a very old town and a very 
 dead one. It is full of weird old corners 
 and strange towers and mysterious stairs 
 and sloping gables. We wandered under 
 the old arches with the centuries. We 
 visited the park and looked into the 
 churches. We drank port in a Rem- 
 brandt cafe. W^e lunched like lords at 
 the only chic restaurant. We changed 
 our hotel and took rooms with a bath. 
 We scrubbed before going to bed and 
 on getting up next morning. 
 
 At nine o'clock I registered at the 
 Lycee. Pete left to find his own hospital, 
 after talking about me to three or four 
 officials. Some one gave me a slip of 
 paper on which was written Lit 106, 
 Salle II. I mounted to the second 
 story and found my corner. I was 
 thankful it was a corner. Salle II was 
 a vast, dirty ward, containing nearly 
 fifty unpleasant looking beds. They were 
 covered with gorgeous, shabby quilts, 
 red, blue, green, etc. Some of the win- 
 dows were open ; of that I was glad. 
 230 
 
^A^ AMERICAN POILU 
 
 The crippled poilus were sitting about, 
 playing cards or smoking. There were 
 negroes from far away, Italians, Rus- 
 sians and Chinese looking fellows from 
 the East. I was happy to see that the 
 occupant of the bed beside mine was a 
 clear-eyed Breton. He began to talk 
 with me at once and was surprised to 
 hear I was an American. 
 
 A drawing on the dirty wall pictured 
 a starving Kaiser. Outside the trees 
 were yellow and sad. A very dismal 
 *'home" I thought. How should I be 
 able to relax to the long long days there ? 
 What would the meals be like.? I went 
 down and took a look at the salle-a- 
 manger; it was awful — a filthy sty. 
 The poor poilu, I thought. From noon 
 until four o'clock I was free to go out. 
 I began to wonder how I could eat three 
 meals during the afternoon. Of course 
 there was no heat and, I learned later, 
 no light after dark. And November 
 days are so short and so miserable. 
 
 At noon I went out and met Pete 
 231 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 and made as good a story as I could 
 of my "home." He was distressed and 
 began to think how he could change 
 matters. Briefly, he saw a friend, and 
 on entering the hospital that night, a 
 charwoman, from whom I asked sheets, 
 said, "You are to go to La Retraite." 
 Well, La Retraite couldn't be worse 
 and it might be better. I took my bag 
 and by the light of the charwoman's 
 candle found my way through the ghastly 
 hallways, passed the guarded door, and 
 following directions, presented myself 
 at La Retraite. 
 
 A charming man, Le Pere Fleury, 
 greeted me. His bureau was warm and 
 cosy — a little coal fire burning on the 
 hearth. I was invited to sit down before 
 it. We talked English. Le Pere Fleury 
 has been for years a missionary in India 
 and speaks English very well. At pres- 
 ent, he told me, there was no vacant 
 chamber, but in two days he thought 
 he might arrange me nicely. 
 
 At nine o'clock the soldier who occupied 
 232 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 the room in which I was to sleep showed 
 me to our chamber. It was a dismal 
 stone vault containing five little wooden 
 beds and nothing else, except the cold 
 atmosphere of repentance. I slept well 
 (with a nun in my head), after getting 
 used to the rats squealing in the corner. 
 At seven-thirty I found the weird foun- 
 tain where once the nuns, now the 
 soldiers, wash, made my toilet and fol- 
 lowed the men in to breakfast. The 
 breakfast was delightful. A brown, low- 
 studded room, spotlessly clean and smell- 
 ing good. The sisters served us hot 
 coffee and honest bread. The scene 
 was more or less touching — a hundred 
 shadowy cripples meekly eating in the 
 vaguely lighted apartment. 
 
 After breakfast I looked into the dim 
 chapel ; bells were tinkling, flowers, slim 
 candles burning on the altar. I walked 
 out into the autumn garden. A boy 
 with a pink, simple face was helping 
 an old wrinkled sister cut cabbages. The 
 straight little brook was yellow with 
 233 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 leaves. The trees were bare. Return- 
 ing to the house, I read over the door 
 "Refuge des Pecheurs." A gray virgin 
 looked down on me. Well, I thought, 
 this is interesting, and I shuddered, 
 thinking of my narrow escape from the 
 Lycee. 
 
 That night I slept in the five-bedded 
 stone vault, but the following day Le 
 Pere Fleury told me he had a chamber 
 for me and I went to see it. The quaint- 
 est little room you can imagine, on 
 the sun and garden-side of the convent. 
 It contained a desk, two chairs, a ro- 
 mantic fireplace, a looking glass, a seduc- 
 tive bed with a white pillow and a red 
 covering, a night-stand, a portrait of 
 St. Frangois de Sales, a lamp, a wash 
 table with an adequate bowl and jug 
 and (climax !) an upright piano. It was 
 religiously clean. I was happy and took 
 possession at once, and here I'm living. 
 
 My good luck continued ; Le Pere 
 Fleury came to me and said he would 
 like to present me to La Mere Superieure. 
 234 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 He did so. She was like a little black 
 bell with an ivory face. A thousand 
 chains and beads hung from her waist. 
 She was sweet as an old picture. She 
 talked rapidly and offered me the hos- 
 pitality of her convent. A sister would 
 be happy to prepare my breakfast and 
 — *'Did I like my bread toasted.^" I 
 was enchanted. The soldier whom I 
 had hired to do my "work" brings my 
 breakfast each morning at eight o'clock. 
 Each afternoon for two hours I'm at 
 the Lycee for treatment. I undress half 
 a dozen times and I am given electric 
 currents and massage and baths. I row 
 in a fixed boat, I ride a fixed bicycle, 
 I strap my leg into a strange looking 
 machine, turn a wheel, and my foot 
 does a queer little dance all by itself. 
 Should you look into the windows while 
 I'm doing my treatments you would cer- 
 tainly think me quite mad at last. Of 
 course Fiii allowed to stay out as long 
 as I like. My comrades are gathered 
 in at four o'clock. Pete and I lunch 
 235 
 
^A^ AMERICAN POILU 
 
 and dine en ville and have a very jolly 
 time. So you see I shall be happy 
 enough at Rennes, and if the papers 
 are not joking, my leg will be cured 
 by the time peace is proclaimed. 
 
 Victory is certainly in sight ; I can 
 almost hear her wings unfurling. Four 
 years of war, four millions of dead only 
 to uproot an ambitious family ! Peace — 
 it sounds almost like a joke. And the 
 dead around Verdun, and the ruins of 
 northern France ! How preposterous it 
 all is — even Peace. And the thousands 
 of cripples here in Rennes — how do 
 they pronounce the word *' Peace"? 
 Heroically, I fancy. (In my little way 
 I'm proud of my stiff knee.) Yester- 
 day I was shown a vast asylum con- 
 taining the insane victims of the war. 
 This peace will hardly change their 
 condition. Still I shall put vine leaves 
 in my hair when the proclamation rushes 
 through the streets. 
 
 Devotedly, 
 E. 
 236 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 November 13, 1918. 
 Hopital 1, Rennes. 
 Cherie — 
 
 Well, I suppose you got the news 
 quite as soon as we did, and hung out 
 your flag and blew your horn and danced 
 and drank wine. Germany tumbled 
 apart and Mangin marched into Strass- 
 bourg. By the way, Mangin was my 
 General the 21st of July, 1918. I wish 
 I were with his soldiers now, quietly 
 advancing into the great page of his- 
 tory. I enjoyed being a poilu and I'm 
 sure the hereafter of my life will never 
 be quite as satisfactory as this finishing 
 war episode. 
 
 I recall a poem by De Ileredia in which 
 an aging man laments he did not die a 
 young soldier in battle. I am that 
 aging man. This is extremely selfish 
 of me, isn't it? And I realize the enor- 
 mous advantages of being "spared" — 
 still, the roly-poly years say very little 
 to me. 
 
 Perhaps I'm a little pessimistic this 
 237 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 morning, and my excuse is the trouble- 
 some fact that my wound has reopened 
 and I'm obliged to wear a pansement 
 again. As you know, the wound is 
 directly behind my knee and naturally 
 is agitated by every step I take, every 
 bend of the knee. The new skin over 
 the wound is ever so delicate and two 
 days ago it broke. Last night it looked 
 very ugly, and this morning the good 
 sister came in and bandaged it. This 
 afternoon I must see the doctor and 
 make arrangements to omit my treat- 
 ments (the exercises) for at least a week 
 or so. This is very tiresome, especially 
 so if I'm forced to leave this tranquil 
 Refuge des Pecheurs. The blesses here 
 are "dry", that is, healed. During the 
 night I suffered considerably from pain 
 in my leg. I fancy it will never be as 
 capable as its neighbor. I shall go 
 with a slight limp. But all this is 
 of no importance. Let me tell you of 
 the celebration here. 
 
 Naturally we rather expected the 
 238 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 armistice would be signed, still we were 
 dazed when the news arrived. Pierre 
 and I were ordering luncheon in a little 
 family cafe when the steeples began to 
 sing and an excitement went up the 
 street. The door burst open and in 
 came a pretty little ouvriere, crying, 
 ''Cest fini — cest fini; la guerre est 
 fini — c'est la paix.'' She made me real- 
 ize what had happened — She was Vic- 
 tory in a pink sweater and a little black 
 hat. The sound of her '"Cest la paix"' 
 and the increasing clamor of the bells 
 touched me deeply. I had visions of the 
 dead armies contented at last and fall- 
 ing asleep — and my tears began to 
 drop into my plate (we had ordered 
 stewed kidneys). 
 
 Out in the street we found the old 
 city a garden of flags — red and white 
 and blue floated from every window and 
 balcony. The sun came out as though 
 in June and I saw the moon looking 
 down. The crowd and its joyful noise 
 augmented at each corner. The place was 
 239 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 crammed to hear the Mayor's speech. 
 The blesses kissed each other and legless 
 heroes danced together. Cheers for the 
 " doughboys " when one appeared. Venus 
 took them from the arms of Bacchus. 
 
 In the evening we had colored lan- 
 terns and fireworks and music. Cest 
 la Victoire — and every one smiled and 
 offered a drink. 
 
 This letter must stop without being 
 finished — I've no more time. 
 
 Devotedly, 
 
 E. 
 
 November 18, 1918. 
 Ilopital 1, Rennes. 
 Dear Mother — 
 
 Yesterday of course we had to go to 
 church to sing the Te Deum and cele- 
 brate the Victory. I fancy you did 
 the same in M. I hope your weather 
 was as fine as ours — a winter day of 
 sun and crystal. 
 
 The church was packed ; however, 
 arriving in good season, we got seats 
 240 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 well toward the front, with every sort 
 and condition of man — as a church 
 should be. I noticed many American 
 soldiers. Before the service began a 
 passage was made in the crowd and 
 fifty or more splendid old veterans of 
 the War of 1870 marched gently toward 
 the gorgeous altar, carrying their rich 
 and memorable banners. The organ sent 
 a spider chasing up my backbone, and 
 from a dimness emerged an embroidered 
 procession holding sparkling crosses and 
 lit candles. 
 
 We stood on tiptoe to see the approach- 
 ing Cardinal in a sea of scarlet draperies 
 under a satin and fringed roof. He took 
 his white throne as any king, and then 
 the complicated service began. But I've 
 neither wits nor memory enough to 
 describe it. There was a great deal of 
 solemn walking about and putting on and 
 off of little caps and chanting and bowing 
 and kissing of hands, the organ every so 
 often chasing the spiders up my back. 
 After a time the sleepy Cardinal left 
 241 
 
^iV AMERICAN POILU 
 
 his throne and, preceded and followed 
 by dressy assistants, he paraded to the 
 pulpit and made the most lamentable 
 speech ever made in any temple, Chris- 
 tian or pagan. The Captain said it 
 was shameful, and I said it was criminal. 
 On the greatest day of the history of 
 the modern world, on the day of victory 
 after a four years' war, before a vast 
 audience the least of which had borne 
 his fagot of suffering, the crippled sol- 
 diers, the forlorn mothers, the tragic 
 fathers — this poor old Cardinal of 
 Rennes had nothing to say of beauty, 
 of consolation, of spiritual import. He 
 talked exactly as a cabman or a bar- 
 tender would talk about the Boche 
 and the end of the war. He was a 
 shocking Cardinal, 
 
 But the organ was victorious and 
 the long flags hanging from the painted 
 arches. The vast audience was vic- 
 torious, also — silent and in mourning 
 for the most part — still, emanating 
 the joy and pride victorious. And the 
 242 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 Cardinal was victorious — quite so — 
 but he should have been celebrating 
 in a rusty old stove-pipe hat, on the 
 box of a shabby old cab. I hope the 
 Cardinal in Notre Dame was more be- 
 coming to his place. I fancy he was. 
 
 Victorious — I think it very hard to 
 be victorious — victorious with beauty. 
 Defeat is easier; one puts on black and 
 goes softly and is more or less dignified. 
 Victorious — one is tempted to get drunk, 
 to be vulgar and cruel. Listen to what 
 Walt Whitman wrote after the victory 
 of our Civil War, and behold the 
 ideal. 
 
 "Reconciliation, Word over all, beauti- 
 ful as the sky. 
 
 Beautiful that war and all its deeds of 
 carnage must in time be utterly 
 lost, 
 
 That the hands of the sisters Death 
 and Night incessantly softly wash 
 again, and ever again, this soiled 
 world ; 
 
 For my enemy is dead, a man as divine 
 as myself is dead, 
 243 
 
AN AMERICAN POILU 
 
 I look where he lies white-faced and still 
 
 in the coffin — I draw near, 
 Bend down and touch lightly with my 
 lips the white face in the coffin." 
 
 Devotedly, 
 E, 
 
 344 
 
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