A Blue Devil of France: Epic figures and stories of the Great War, 1914-1918. Gustav P. Capart
and the approaches to the pier are completely torn to pieces. Can you imagine a woman in such a place?
Stories of woman, adventures of woman, anecdotes of woman, serve as topics of conversations. "When you haven't the object of your desires," said a profound philosopher, "you speak of it."
The conversation became general again, when, all at once, Lieutenant Divisia silenced us with a finger before him. No, it was impossible to be deceived, my word upon it, a woman's voice was heard in the next room!
Had a 420 fallen in the midst of us, the silence could not have been more impressive—of course realizing that it would have flattened us like pancakes. But, quickly and with remarkable unison, we arose quietly with the same intention——
Yet, with an energetic gesture, Major Peigné, who never lost a bet, stopped us and made for the door.
"Remain here," he said, "I will see what it is!" He entered the room at the side, nimbly closing the door after him. It was very malicious! We looked at each other with stupor and regret. Then we cautiously approached the crack in the boards that separated the two spaces. It was, in effect, a woman, a young woman deliciously beautiful, I assure you—an indelible vision in this terrible, stricken little city. Lady Dorothy, with her pretty khaki costume, appeared before us for the first time! She had the air of a warlike Amazon which became her perfectly, and, at first sight, we all had fallen in love with her——
She was engaged in a lengthy conversation with our corporal-secretary to whom she had been sent to do her bit among the soldiers, all unknown to us.
We all thought: "Little Lady Dorothy, the gold of your blonde hair which we see through the slit in the partition is as precious a bit as that you are offering to our corporal——"
After that we saw several times the fugitive vision of this angel with the blonde locks searching among the ruins for our wounded. She drove her own automobile with a steady hand, with enemy shells breaking around her, vainly seeking to blow her to bits.
THE CONSCIENTIOUS POILU, BEFORE ST. GEORGES.
May, 1915.
The nights are still very cold and to warm ourselves we have builded a comfortable fire by the sea. Sacks of sand, skillfully fixed by Richard, mask the flashes from the brazier, for otherwise they would certainly invite 77's and 105's which the enemy would not lose time dropping among us to disturb our momentary comfort in the first line.
Reymond and I have many things to discuss and the hours pass relatively fast; the Marine Fusiliers come and go in the trenches and communicating lines with a sort of nervous activity that never leaves them night or day, a trait found only in men that follow the sea.
The sector is extremely calm, the tide has gone out a bit and Reymond has sent a patrol to the other side of the evacuation canal.
Soon the poilu in charge of the patrol returns and, walking up to his superior, says:
"Captain, we have been out reconnoitering the enemy; we saw a boche on sentinel duty; he did not see us—I believe I can get him."
"How far is he?"
"About half a mile away."
"Go—get him!"
We continued the conversation as the poilu went on his errand; it struck us that the man had been deceived. As on a certain night they had charged on a blind, about a hundred yards from here——
The night was passing without incident when soon our brave chap returned and, assuming his former position before his officer, said:
"Captain, I cannot get him—there is a network of barbed wire. Can I kill him?"
"Why, certainly. Always use your own judgment. You don't usually have time to come back for instructions——"
Again he started out and the heavens began to pale; we searched once more for images of the past in the glowing embers of the wood fire which was fast dying out.
Suddenly, over there, toward the German lines, a rifle shot broke the stillness of the night, followed by the well-known machine-gun serenade; immediately rockets, star shell and the artillery came to life——
Reymond rises, standing very stiff and straight.
"Ah, hang it! The poor devil must be shot to pieces——"
Our own cannon begin to mix in the fray. Reymond decides to send some men after the others. He is visibly concerned about our soldiers and is on the verge of going himself.
Just then the poilu stands before him for the third time, saluting respectfully:
"Captain—I have killed him!"
And he said it with a kind of accent that made a shiver run down the spine.
The sky commences to resolve itself into long yellow and gray stripes—ah, Flanders!—ah, Flanders!——
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