Over the Seas for Uncle Sam. Various
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The French are a whole lot different from us—more easy-going-like. They make their money and spend it free. I like that about them. Not like some people I know who won't let go of a nickel once they gets a death grip on it.
Well, say, when we was anchored at Villefranche we come to know a thing or two about the Frenchies. Villefranche is just over the hill from Nice—a nice jaunt of a couple of miles or so, or if you've a mind to, you can take a little car that gets you there before you know it.
Nice is on the style of Atlantic City. If you ask me, I like Atlantic City better, but then that's because they speak United States there. Still Nice has a great bathing beach—you have to hand it to them—and you get so you like them little tables set out in front of the cafés, where they "parlez-vous" with each other and drink quarts of red ink.
We'd hike over to Nice every shore leave. Some of the crew went as far as Monte Carlo, but not me. I was satisfied. Besides, one place was as sporty as the other, if that was what you wanted. They was chuck-full of what the French call the "joie de vie," which in Yankee means "plenty of pep"—that's it.
You always felt happy there and the people was great! Didn't seem to take nothing serious—the Frenchies don't, in peace times. The women had a twinkle in their eye and a kind of sparkle about them, and the men said pretty things and twirled their canes—oh, they was a cheerful lot, all right.
Remember, all this was before the war. It was August. Hot. Still. Can't you see it? The sea, where our boat lay at anchor, calm as glass and blue as a turquoise. The sand along the beach, snow white.
It was a Saturday, and we had a forty-eight, which took us ashore at ten in the morning. Didn't want to miss no time on land. The day was so fine that we decided to foot it into town. Everything was green and growing and smelled good. We took our time and ambled into Nice long about chow. The minute we hit that port I knew for sure something was up.
Oh, don't think there hadn't been war talk flying about. Sure there had, but, except for a general uneasiness, you wouldn't know nothing was doing. The Frenchies are like that—they don't hunt trouble, but when it comes—oh, boy! They sure are right there!
We seen little groups of folks standing talking together. The shop keepers had left their shops, and joined the crowds on the street. They was waving their hands—they are great on that—everyone speaking at once. We come up close and listened. What we heard certainly made our ears ring!
War! France was going to declare war on Germany! Queer how that black cloud seemed to change the whole complexion of that little sun-soaked town. I'd never seen the natives look like that before. There was a little old woman who kept a fruit stand—figs and peaches and what-not. She always had a grin for us fellows when we passed. She and her granddaughter. The granddaughter was a pretty girl—her cheeks was as red as the side of the peaches and she had black eyes and hair. They was always ready to swap a "bon jour" with us—but not today. The old lady was minding the stand alone. She looked kind of white—no smile—no wave of her hand. She told me her granddaughter had gone to the square where the bulletins was being posted. We beat it over.
It was about three; no, I guess it was four, before the big crowds began to gather in the square. Up to that time there had been little groups drifting here and there, but by four the wagons had stopped at the corners, their drivers had climbed down from the seats and pushed their way into the mob, and the tram-car conductors and motormen just left their cars wherever they happened to shut off power, and shoved their way in for a view of the bulletins.
I tell you, that little town was at fever heat! Excitement! Say, nothing beats a Frenchie at that! I've seen a lot of things in my time, but it certainly gave me a queer feeling in the pit of my stomach to realize just what those bulletins meant. It kind of got you to see that little pleasure city so dead serious all at once.
Everyone in Nice was in that crowd—rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief. The ladies from the Riviera, in their silks and satins—the tradespeople—the poor—all fighting for a view of the words flashed on the boards.
Someone yelled, "Vive la France! Vive la France!" and a thousand voices caught it up until it rose and swelled like the roar of the combers in a storm.
We had seen Nice quiet and peaceful and pretty—we saw a different Nice from that moment. They didn't waste no time. They began calling in the reserves. Do you know how they done it? Why, they'd simply gather them up as they went along the street. From buildings and shops and hotels and huts they poured—boys for the most part—some pulling on a coat and buttoning it as they ran, and women following them, always women—sweethearts and mothers—looking puzzled and dazed by it all, but never holding the boys back—not they!
I never seen fellows mustered in that quick. The streets were choked with men—sharp orders rang out, and the blare of trumpets and rolling of drums. Say, I had to pinch myself to be sure I wasn't dreaming it! You read about such things, but you never expect to see them with your own two eyes!
Some few men had uniforms or parts of uniforms. Some carried old swords their fathers had fought with before them. Some of them sang as they marched to their barracks, arm in arm. Some broke away and ran ahead, calling to a pal, stopping to speak with an old friend. And always, lined up on either side of the street, was the raving, crazy mob that cheered them, flinging up their hats and waving handkerchiefs.
Outside the cafés, at the little tables, wine was flowing like water. One glass after another flung down with a toast to France. They didn't stop at that. I seen a little girl spring up on a table and hold her glass high; all the folks at nearby tables jumped to their feet, cheering her. I couldn't hear what she said, but suddenly she straightened up and began singing the "Marseillaise." Lord! The whole town caught up the tune—it came from everywhere. Women in open windows above the street, leaning way out over the sills, sang it; children in the street piped up; there wasn't no one too young or too old to join in.
The boys marching by grinned at her as they shouted it, and she waved to them.
At a crossing I caught sight of our little old woman. She was shelling out all the fruit on her stand to the boys as they passed. The tears was rolling down her cheeks, but she smiled at them just the same.
I didn't see her granddaughter until some time later; then I found her with a fellow who was dragging on his uniform coat and talking to her at the same time. She helped him fasten it, her eyes on his face. I never seen anyone look so hard at a man—as if she could eat him up with her eyes. When he left her she stood staring after him. I wormed my way in through the crowd until I got alongside of her and I took her arm, but she didn't seem to know I was there.
Bulletins was flashed every few minutes. No sooner would one get posted up than they would tear it down to make room for another. Above the roar of voices rang out the call to arms, and always from no place in particular men and men and men came pouring, keen to get into the Big Scrap.
You couldn't take a train if you wanted to. Everything was commandeered for the "military," as they call it over there.
The sun went down and the street lamps began to wink at you and still the excitement raged. Bulletins—crowds—trumpets—voices—soldiers arriving from Monte Carlo and a new set of cheers for them. No sleep for nobody, just moving through the packed streets listening to a snatch of conversation here and a snatch there.
And every passenger coach and freight train jammed with soldiers on their way to the concentration camp. Those who had any, wore the old French uniform—you know, the red pants and blue coats—great colors, but say, what cruel targets for Boche bullets they turned out to be!
Next day the cry went up for horses—they needed horses, and they got them. That's the Frenchies' spirit for you. Nothing is too much to do for their beloved country. Every farmer with a four-legged animal drove into Nice and gave him up gladly, and what's more brought in all his garden produce for the boys.
It was like a horse mart. I never seen so many sweating, rearing, stamping brutes. One farmer drove in a little blind mare he'd