Part 6

We saw a bayonet drill with a tutor as vivacious and linguistically original as a football coach, and were then taken to the bomb-throwing school. The tutor here was as deserving of sympathy as a Belgian. A bomb explodes five seconds after you press the button. Many of the pupils press the button, then get scared, drop the bomb and run. The instructor has to pick up the bomb and throw it away before it explodes and messes up his anatomy. And there’s no time to stop and figure in what direction you’re going to throw.

The Maoris were our next entertainers. The Maoris are colored gemmen from New Zealand. They were being taught how to capture a trench. Before they left their own dugout they sang a battle hymn that would make an American dance and scare a German to death. They went through their maneuvers with an incredible amount of pep and acted as if they could hardly wait to get into real action against the boche. Personally, I would have conscientious objections to fighting a Maori.

Then we were shown a gas-mask dress rehearsal. A British gas mask has a sweet scent, like a hospital. You can live in one, they say, for twenty-four hours, no matter what sort of poison the lovely Huns are spraying at you. We all tried them on and remarked on their efficacy, though we knew nothing about it.

We had lunch and were told we might make a tour of inspection of the hospitals in which the wounded lay. I balked at this and, instead, called on a Neenah, Wisconsin, doctor from whose knee had been extracted a sizable piece of shrapnel, the gift of last Sunday’s bomb dropper. This doctor has been over but three weeks, and the ship that brought him came within a yard of stopping a torpedo. Neither war nor Wisconsin has any terrors left for him.

To-morrow we are to be taken right up to the front, dressed in helmets, gas masks, and everything.

_Saturday, September 8. With the British._

Two machine loads, containing us and our helmets, masks, and lunch baskets, got away to an early start and headed for the Back of the Front. In one car were the Captain with the Monocle, the Harvard prof., and the American philanthropist. The baggage, the philanthropist’s secretary, and I occupied the other. The secretary talked incessantly and in reverent tones of his master, whom he called The Doctor. One would have almost believed he considered me violently opposed to The Doctor (which I wasn’t, till later in the day) and was trying to win me over to his side with eulogistic oratory.

The first half of our journey was covered at the usual terrifying rate of speed. The last half was a snail’s crawl which grew slower and slower as we neared our objective. Countless troops, afoot and in motors, hundreds of ammunition and supply trucks, and an incredible number of businesslike and apparently new guns, these took up a healthy three-quarters of the road and, despite our importance, didn’t hunch to let us pass.

When we sounded our horns to warn of our approach, the subalterns, or whatever you call them, would look round, stand at attention and salute, first the Captain with the Monocle, and then, when our car came up, me. Me because I was the only one in the second machine who wore a British officer’s cap. I returned about three salutes, blushing painfully, and then threw my cap on the floor of the car and rode exposed. Saluting is a wear and tear on the right arm, and being saluted makes you feel slackerish and camouflagy, when you don’t deserve it.

We attained the foot of the observation hill round noon, left our machines, and ate our picnic lunch, consisting of one kind of sandwiches and three kinds of wine. Then we accomplished the long climb, stopping half-way up to don helmets and masks. Our guide told us that the boche, when not otherwise pleasantly employed, took a few shots at where we were standing to test his long-distance aim.

I wore the mask as long as I could, which was about half an hour. It was unpleasantly reminiscent of an operation I once had, the details of which I would set down here if I had time. Without it, I found, I could see things much more plainly. Through strong field glasses the British trenches were discernible. The German front line was behind a ridge, two hundred yards away--from the British, not us--and invisible. No drive was in progress, but there was the steady boom, boom of heavy guns, the scary siren, with a bang at the end, of grenades, and an occasional solo in a throaty barytone which our captain told us belonged to Mr. Trench Mortar.

The firing was all in one direction--toward the northeast. Fritz was not replying, probably because he had no breath to waste in casual repartee.

Convinced that our hill was a zone of safety, for this afternoon at least, I wanted to stay up there and look and listen till it was time to go home. But our captain had arranged a trip to a sniping school, and our captain would rather have broken his monocle than have made the slightest alteration in the program for the day.

To the sniping school we went, and saw the snipers sniping on their snipes. It was just like the sniping school I had visited at the American camp, and I got pretty mad at our captain for dragging us away from a sight far more interesting. But he redeemed himself by having the major in charge show us real, honest-to-goodness camouflage, staged by an expert.

We were taken to a point two hundred yards distant from a trench system.

“Standing up in front of one of those trenches,” said the major, “there’s a sergeant in costume. He’s in plain sight. Now you find him.”

Well, we couldn’t find him, and we gave up.

“Move, Sergeant!” shouted the major.

The sergeant moved and, sure enough, there he was!

“I had him spotted all the time,” said The Doctor.

The major directed the sergeant to change to a costume of a different hue. When the change had been made we were required to turn our backs till he had “hidden” himself again. Again he was “in plain sight,” and again we had to give up. Again he was ordered to move, and we saw him, this time in colors diametrically opposed to those of his first garb.

“I had him spotted all the time,” said The Doctor.

The sergeant went through his entire repertory of tricks, but the rest must not be reported.

It occurred to me on the way back to our machines that some football coach could make a fish out of the defensive team by camouflaging his back field.

Our captain and the Harvard prof. climbed into the front car, leaving The Doctor, his secretary, and me to bring up the rear. The sec. sat with the driver; The Doctor and I in the back seat.

“How long have you been over here?” inquired The Doctor at length.

I told him.

“How many American soldiers are there in France?”

I told him.

After an impressive pause, he said:

“As a matter of fact, there are really--” And he increased my estimate by four hundred per cent. “Of course,” he continued, “I have the right figures. They were furnished me by the Defense League before I left home. They naturally wouldn’t give them to a writer because they don’t want them published.”

“And naturally,” says I, “whenever they tell a writer anything in strict confidence, he rushes to the nearest Local and Long Distance Telephone Booth and gets Wilhelmstrasse on the wire.”

“Oh, no,” said The Doctor. “But a writer might think it was his duty to send the correct information to his paper.”

“Did you ever hear of the censorship?” I asked him.

“There are ways of eluding it.”

“And do you think all writers are that kind?”

He shrugged a fat shoulder.

“Not all, possibly a very few. But one never can tell the right kind from the wrong.”

His guard was down, and I took careful aim:

“Do you think the Defense League used good judgment in entrusting that secret to you, when you spill it to the first irresponsible reporter you happen to run across?”

If I hadn’t won this argument, I wouldn’t repeat it.

Not until we reached our château did I realize why I had been so catty. I’d gone without my tea.

_Sunday, September 9. Paris._

Mr. Gibbons and I this morning bade good-by to our genial hosts and were driven to the station at which we arrived last Wednesday. On the Paris-bound train I wondered audibly why the servants had given me that queer look before we left.

“Did you tip them?” asked Mr. Gibbons.

“Certainly!” I snapped.

“I’ll bet I know,” said Mr. Gibbons. “You probably packed your own suit-case.”

He was right.

VI

HOW I DIDN’T DRIVE MAJOR BLANK’S CAR TO CAMP SUCH-AND-SUCH

_Monday, September 10. Paris._

The American major who owns the car which Mr. Kiley drove down from Le Havre, whither it had been sent by the man who bought it in London for the American major--well, anyway, this American major, he’s in the artillery camp at Such-and-Such, and he wants me to bring it down there for him. I’ve never handled, or, rather, footled one of the little birds, but it’s something everybody should learn, like French and auction and how to swim. Besides, I want to see the artillery camp. So I’m accepting the commission and intend to get busy to-morrow morning.

_Tuesday, September 11. Paris._

With an American pass and an order for the car, I taxied to the United States army garage, in the Quai Debilly.

“Avez-vous fixed vous with passes?” inquired a friendly inmate of the garage.

I showed him my American card.

“That isn’t bien suffisant,” he said. “You’ll have to get a pink one to go through the French army zone.”

I recalled then our troubles on a previous automobile trip and was glad he had spoken.

“Where do I go for that?” I inquired.

“Go,” said he, “to the Préfet de Ligne du Communications.” Or something like that.

“Où is il?”

“I think he’s in the Rue François Premier.”

“And is the car all right?”

“I guess so. Nos haven’t looked at it yet.”

I had let my taxi go, and twenty minutes were spent in getting another. It was another hour before we located the préfet.

A secretary examined my passport and American pass and took my dossier:

Name, nationality, birthplace, age, ancestry, real purpose in coming to France. Hair--black; forehead--high; eyes--brown; nose--prominent; mouth--medium; chin--round; complexion--dark; height--six one and three-quarters. Sign here.

“Now,” said the sec., “monsieur will avez to come across avec a photophie.”

“I’m just out,” I said. “I’d no idea I’d be so popular.”

“Nos can issue no passes sans a photophie,” says he, so out I went in search of a rapid-fire studio.

The driver pulled up in front of a gallery on the Rue de la Paix, where the artist promised to have six copies of my map printed by midi.

To kill time I rode back to Billy’s rue.

“The car’s on the blink,” said my friend in French. “The connecting rod is lâche and some bearings are burned out. Besides, vous would be a rummy to partir on these tires.”

“Comme beaucoup new ones do je need?”

“Just plain quatre,” says he.

“Well,” says I, “put them on and get busy avec the reparations. I want to start away before dark.”

“Ah, oui,” says he, “but we have no tires and we have no tools to make the reparations avec.”

“Can’t you get them?”

“Vous devoir get them yourself.”

“Où?”

“At the branch factory of the ----,” and he said the name of the car right out loud.

“Où est le branch factory?”

“Il est in un suburb--Le Vallois-Perret. The address is 6163 Rue Corneille.”

“What tools are required?”

“Une roue-tirer et un offset clef à vis.”

Which means a wheel puller and an offset wrench.

“And can je aussi tires get there?”

“Ah, oui.”

It was noon, and my trusting driver and I returned to the studio on the Rue de la Paix. The pictures weren’t fini. They never are.

“Take me to Maxim’s,” says I, “and we’ll call it a half day.”

After lunch I walked back to the studio. The pictures were not fini, but would monsieur rester? Monsieur would. Monsieur rested till fourteen o’clock, got six photophies that had him looking more than ever like a German spy, and taxied back to the Rue François Premier. The préfet’s joint was closed.

I asked the driver how far it was out to Le Vallois-Perret.

“Come on,” he said, and I climbed in, but “come on,” in French, means “I don’t get you,” so I had to repeat the directions four or five times.

“Ah, oui,” he said at last. “Le Vallois-Perret. Quatorze kilomet’s.”

“What is that in American money?”

“Come on,” said the driver.

“Hotel Con-tin-en-tal,” I said.

I’ll tackle ’em afresh to-morrow morning.

_Wednesday, September 12. Paris._

The préfet’s secretary approved my picture and gave me a beautiful salmon-colored pass. It is good for five days, which is plenty, as I will come back on the train.

At the city gates, en route to Le Vallois-Perret, my taxi and I were stopped and our essence measured. If we brought back more than we took out, we would have to pay taxes on the difference.

Quatorze kilomet’s was a very conservative estimate of the distance, and it was nearly eleven when we reached Cornelia’s rue and the branch factory.

An American heard my plea for four new tires, an offset wrench, and a wheel puller.

“It can’t be done,” he said. “All we do is own this place. But the French Government has taken it over and runs it.”

“But this is a United States army car,” I said, “and we’re supposed to be allies of the French.”

“Without special permission,” said he, “you stand as much chance as if you were the Crown Prince.”

“Where can I get special permission?”

“Your best bet is to see Captain Vandervelde. If anybody can fix it, he’s the boy. You’ll find him in the Passage de Haynau, Rue Croix Nivert.”

“What number?”

“There is no number.”

I thanked him, or perhaps I forgot to, and returned to my taxi.

“Passage de Haynau in Rue Croix Nivert,” I said.

“Q’numéro?”

“There ain’t none.”

“Come on,” demanded the driver.

“I told you there was no number. We’ll just have to keep looking till we find it.”

We convinced the guardian of the gate that we weren’t trying to cheat on gasoline, and rolled into Rue Croix Nivert about thirteen o’clock. My chauffeur sat nonchalantly in his accustomed seat while I made a house-to-house canvass of Haynau’s Passage. The last house was the right one. I knew it in an instant, for when I entered the corridor a French sentry popped up and placed the end of his bayonet within an inch of Nose-prominent.

“Captain Vandervelde,” said I, making a short strategical retreat.

“Come on,” said Frenchy without lowering his sticker.

A password was what he wanted, and Mr. Poincaré had forgotten to call me up and give me the correct one for the day. I produced a two-franc piece and held it out. The sentry withdrew his weapon, accepted the coin, and allowed me to pass.

“The word,” I thought to myself, “must be Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité.”

Captain Vandervelde was in and made me wait only half an heure, the while I thought more than once of yon taxi. Finally I was summoned to the inner office.

“What can je faire pour vous?” he inquired.

I told him I wanted an order on the ---- branch factory for some tools and four new tires.

“Rien fairing on the tires,” he said.

“Pourquoi?” I asked him.

“Orders pour tires must come from the Maison de la Guerre.”

“Can you fix me for the tools?”

“Ah, oui. What tools voulez-vous?”

“Une roue-tirer et un offset clef à vis.”

“Votre papers, s’il vous plaît.”

I handed him passport, American pass, and salmon-pink card. He glanced them over, then began rummaging in a drawer. I knew what was coming--another dossier.

“Avez-vous une photophie?” he asked.

“Ah, oui,” says I, and slipped him one of the remaining five.

He kept the dossier and photophie for the amusement of himself and progeny. He gave me only a mauve card which said I was entitled to one wheel puller and one left-handed offset monkey wrench.

I told my driver we had to hurry right back to Le Vallois-Perret. He looked crestfallen.

“Je have had no déjeûner,” he said.

“Neither have je,” I said, and climbed in.

_Thursday, September 13. Paris._

Up early and to the garage. Delivered the tools. “Vous had better buy a tire pump,” said my adviser.

“Je suppose,” said I, “that I’ll have to get an order for one from Papa Joffre.”

“No,” he said. “That’s une chose vous can buy sans an order.”

“Voulez-vous get to work on the car right away?”

“Ah, oui,” says he.

I asked my chauffeur to take me to a maison du tire pumps. We found one on the Champs Elysées. Other things for sale in the store were watches and perfumery. I proceeded thence to French General Headquarters.

The gentleman authorized to sign orders for tires received me cordially and spoke English.

“Certainly,” he said in answer to my request, “if the car is for an American officer. And what is the license number?”

I had to confess I didn’t know.

“Well,” said he, “you go to the garage and find out. Then come back and I’ll give you the order.”

I went to the garage to find out. There was no license.

“Où can je get one?” I asked my friend.

He gave me the address of the license bureau, on Rue Oskaloosa or something. The driver knew where it was.

Monsieur du License surprised me by asking for a picture and taking my description, which I could almost have rhymed by this time--

_Hair jet black, but a paucity of it; Forehead high as the Eiffel tower; Prominent nose, but it’s mine; I love it; Eyes the brown of the pansy flower; Medium mouth, not the best for kisses; Chin as round as a billiard ball; Dark complected--Oh, Mister, this is Me, and I’m better than six feet tall._

“What est the numéro of the engine?”

“Four hundred and fifty-six thousand three hundred and four,” I replied sans batting an eyelash.

He took it down and disappeared into an adjoining room. In a little while he returned with a license plate--second-hand to match the car.

I carried it along to display to the man at G. H. Q., as it is technically known.

“Où can I get the tires?” I asked.

“Anywhere, with that order,” he said.

So I told the driver to go anywhere, and he misunderstood and took me everywhere. The tire maison he chose was as far away as he could drive without crossing the Swiss border.

“Now back to the United States garage,” said I, and we arrived just as they were closing.

My friend told me the car had been “taken down.” When I saw it I was convinced that the “taking down” had been accomplished with shrapnel.

“How many months will it take to put it together again?” I asked.

“Très few minutes,” said the mechanic. “It will be all finished to-morrow midi.”

“It looks all finished now.”

“Avez-vous votre license?” he inquired.

I displayed it triumphantly.

“Ah, oui,” he said. “But that’s just the license for the car. Vous must aussi have a driver’s license.”

“Bonne nuit!” I yelped. “And what for?”

“C’est la loi,” said he. “Everybody who drives in France must have one.”

“How do you get it?”

“You’ll have to go to the Chef de Traffic Police and pass the examination.”

“How long does it take?”

“Très brief. Not more than une heure.”

“Well, will you guarantee to have the car all ready when I come for it at noon to-morrow?”

“Je promise,” he said, and I drove back to the hotel.

Oh, Major, wait till you see that taxi bill!

_Friday, September 14. Paris._

The traffic chief said that before he could examine me for a license I must show him my registration card from a regular police commissioner. I had been told I ought to have one of those darn things, but had passed it up. Now I was face to face with the necessity of acquiring the card and doing it quick. The nearest station was only a few blocks away. I found it jam-packed with people who looked as if they all worked in East St. Louis. I flagged an attendant.

“I want to register,” I told him.

“You’ll be called when it’s your turn,” he said, and gave me a number. It was 89,041.

“How long will I have to wait?”

He pondered.

“I think they’re now in the twenty-thousands,” he said.

Suddenly I bethought me of a document in my pocket, a letter from the boss of the Maison de la Presse. I flashed it on him.

“Ah-h-h!” he sighed, and led me through the mob to the inner shrine.

In ten minutes I had my card. The commissioner didn’t even want a picture, or nothin’. I plunged through the gang again and was stared at enviously. Some of the poor blokes have undoubtedly been waiting there since the Kaiser was forced into the war.

Again I appeared before the traffic chief. “Of course,” he said, “I will have to examine your papers. And avez-vous une photophie?”

I came through.

“Now,” I said, “we’re fifty-fifty. You have one and I have one.”

But he wasn’t listening. He was rummaging for the deadly dossier.

“This,” he said, when he had found one, “will have to be filled out.”

“Yes,” I replied, “I think I recall filling one out last time I was in France.”

“This car belongs to an American army officer?”

“Ah, oui.”

“What does he intend to do with the car?”

The temptation was strong to say he intended using it to tour the trenches. But it was no time to trifle.

“He expects to ride round the camp in it, sir. He is in one of the high commands and has to do a lot of inspecting.”

“Do you know the traffic laws of Paris?”

“Ah, oui.”

He didn’t ask me what they were. But I could have told him. Any part of the street you like, with a minimum speed limit of forty miles on the straightaway and sixty-five miles round the corners.

“You are going to take the car right out of Paris?”

“Ah, oui.”

“That’s all,” he said, and handed me a driver’s license, horizon blue with saffron stripes.

I thanked him and bowed myself out of the place.

“From now on,” I thought, “it’s clear sailing.”

The car was ready. I had in my mind’s eye a near-by unfrequented street, where I was going to master the driving of it in ten minutes. Then I was going to shoot her up to the hotel, get my baggage and leave town.

“How about gas and oil?” I inquired.

“Oil, oui, but essence, no,” said the mechanic.

“Well, throw in ten gallons,” said I.

“Ah, but has monsieur an essence ticket?”

Monsieur never heard of it.

“Ah, then, monsieur can get no essence.”

“Well for--” and monsieur used harsh words.

“Monsieur can easily obtain a ticket,” said the guy when things had quieted down. “Monsieur’s military passes will be suffisant.”

“Where at?”