La France Immortelle

"An idyllic spot," remarked the sergeant.

"Yes," replied his friend, "but not always."

The two were lounging on the grass near a small orchard close to the village of Erquinghem. The river Lys drifted past here chuckling to itself as it went by. A mile or two away a badly broken church tower in Armentières showed where the German guns had been busy only three weeks before.

The sergeant turned over lazily on the grass, and closely examined a beautiful white butterfly with violet spots on its wings.

Dragon-flies buzzed around in the summer sun, and small fish darted hither and thither in the water of the river. Suddenly the sergeant sat up and the white butterfly departed hastily.

"By God, Jack! our luck has been in. We just got out of the Dressing Station behind the Church"—pointing to the spire in Armentières— "and Church and Dressing Station are blown to blazes. Then the day before we arrive here, the swine lob one right into the Ambulance "possie" here. The Aussies catch it and we haven't had a shell over since we arrive."

"Quick! Touch wood!" said his friend.

The sergeant solemnly placed finger on his chum's head.

"Great Scott! man," the other almost shouted, "find something original to do, and if you can't, go up to the A.D.S. and try to stop one.'

" My dear old chap, don't worry about anything on a beautiful day like this. Listen to them rocking it in at Bois Grenier and watch that shrapnel over Armentières. No don't. It's much better to sit and watch the butterflies and imagine you can see Milady coming down the road. I'll bet Mousqueton would have gone for his life if he had had shrapnel to assist his pace. Can't you imagine Porthos trying to get down some of the saps? I wonder if he would have found a 'duchess' in Erquinghem. By the way, it's just a little way down from here—nearer to Fort Rompu—where the man with the Red Cloak hacked off Milady's beautiful head. Will you stroll page 28 down this evening to see if we can run across the famous four and Lord de Winter?"

"You silly fool," said his friend. "It's a wonder you are not sorted out by the O.C.'

"Oh, that Philistine!" snorted the sergeant. "I believe he reads Ella Wheeler Wilcox." Then suddenly, "Come on, Jack. There's bound to be something in and I'll have to send more bearers up if the fun continues at Bois Grenier.'

Together they strolled slowly through the thick lush grass, passed into the little cemetery in the Churchyard, where the severe simplicity of the soldiers' graves contrasted sharply with the decorative tawdriness of those of dead and gone French peasants and labourers. Passing a heavily sand-bagged estaminet, they soon reached the little Ecole Communale which served as a Dressing Station. On the side facing the main street (styled "La Grande Rue") a hole large enough to admit a motor omnibus had been blown by a large German shell a day previous to the New Zealanders' relieving the Australians.

Arrived at the school the Sergeant walked in to find a pretty woman of about thirty years of age trying to explain something to the senior orderly, while a small boy of about five years of age clung anxiously to his mother's hand.

"Come on, sergeant," said the orderly. "This case is more in your line than ours."

After a word or two with the woman, the sergeant learned that the little chap had been wounded in the neck two days previously by a shell fragment and that the mother had brought him to have it attended to.

While the orderly was cleaning and dressing the wound—(which was not a severe one)—the N.C.O. had a few minutes' conversation with the woman. He learned that her husband had been killed a year previously "Mais, C'est pour la patrie," added the young woman proudly.

Then her eyes quickly filled with tears as she indicated the little boy who was standing quite still while the orderly probed round the wound with a piece of sterile gauze in a pair of dressing forceps.

"Il est le dernier de mes enfants, m'sieur," she said, "ses deux soeurs—oh, mon dieu! mes deux petites filles.—sont tuées, il y a trois semaines par un éclat d'obus près de Bois Grenier."

She burst into tears, and the sergeant, swearing softly to himself, stood there awkwardly not knowing what to say. At last he managed to murmur, "Cette maudite Guerre, hélas, ne fait du bien a personne." Madame burst into a torrent of rapid French which the bewildered New Zealander could not follow. Here and there he distinguished the words "Bon Dieu" and "la Sainte Vierge," and just when he was wondering what to say, the orderly saved the situation by throwing down the remains of a bandage and saying cheerfully "There you are, sonny—that'll do fine."

Madame checked her rapid utterance, clasped her son convulsively to her breast and kissed him repeatedly. Then she put the little fellow down again. He drew himself up smartly to attention, "Quelque jour je vais tuer les sales Boches, m'sieur sergent."

"Good for you, Kiddy,' said the N.C.O., "but I hope it won't be necessary." He then turned to Madame, told her when to bring the lad for more dressings and shook hands with her. Madame spoke to the little fellow, who again stood to attention and piped in his page 29 little voice, "Merci, M'sieur." He saluted smartly and walked out clinging to his mother's hand.

The friend of the orchard put his head round the door and called, "Coming down to see D'Artagnan and Milady, Dick?"

The sergeant sat down on a box and said to the senior orderly, "God! Smith, what a nation! The Germans could never crush the French if they fought for a thousand years."

At that moment an Orderly Room messenger came in quickly and handed the sergeant a message. The N.C.O. tore it open and read it slowly as he walked off to join his friend, while the orderlies shouted, 'Tray bonne female down at the Green Estaminet."

As he reached the door Jack remarked, "Rotten discipline you keep, allowing orderlies to call after you like that,"

"Oh! go to hell!" replied the sergeant. "No I didn't mean that, old man. I know you were only fooling. But I don't feel in the George Robey mood. I feel more like writing an epic on France. Don't you think these cross-road crucifixes are symbolic of this country?''

Jack looked up at his friend whose eyes were suspiciously wet and whose lips were slightly quivering and said, "What's wrong, old boy!"

"Nothing,'" was the reply, as with an effort the sergeant recovered his composure. "I was merely thinking what wonderful people the French are, especially their womenfolk. I do not think we sufficiently appreciate France and the French. I am learning daily more of this country and its people. Do you remember that old woman in Armentières-the one who used to sing for us? We were new to the game then and used to laugh, but we are fully blooded to it now. That song she used to sing has been running through my brain ever since I saw that young woman and her little boy. Remember it ended:—

"Mon beau pays, tu ne doit pas mourir
Mon beau pays, tu ne doit pas mourir."

"And by God! it won't" he burst out passionately. "Those clayey hogs over there"—pointing towards the lines where German star-shells were beginning to flicker up into the air, burst into quivering light and die slowly down again—"those swine can never break the spirit of such a people. They haven't the divine spark as the French have."

Then he abruptly changed the subject. "Just got a message from the C.O. Our fellows and the K.R.R. are raiding this evening; Aussies on the right are having a big battalion raid. I've got to get ready for casualties. Hope our boys give 'em hell. No trip to see Lady Winter to-night. You'll be ready to move up with the squads in half-an-hour. You always catch the decent job." He turned abruptly away and walked swiftly to the men's billet.

"Sentimental chap, old Dick," mused his friend. "But he's right. It is a wonderful country—except for the climate in winter." He grinned appreciatively as he recollected how the pieces of one snow-ball had trickled down the colonel's fat neck. Then, changing to the serious note again "And the people! They are superb. I wonder if 'stay-at-home' New Zealanders will ever realise what we owe to her—cette 'Franca Immortelle.' " And as he walked on to get his box-respirator and shrapnel helmet he sang softly to himself—

"Mon beau pays, tu ne doit pas mourir
Mon beau pays, tu ne doit pas mourir."

C.