One of Ours
Book V: "Bidding the Eagles of the West Fly On"
Chapter IV
Deeper and deeper into flowery France! That was the sentence Claude kept
saying over to himself to the jolt of the wheels, as the long troop train went
southward, on the second day after he and his company had left the port of
debarkation. Fields of wheat, fields of oats, fields of rye; all the low hills
and rolling uplands clad with harvest. And everywhere, in the grass, in the
yellowing grain, along the road-bed, the poppies spilling and streaming. On the
second day the boys were still calling to each other about the poppies; nothing
else had so entirely surpassed their expectations. They had supposed that
poppies grew only on battle fields, or in the brains of war correspondents.
Nobody knew what the cornflowers were, except Willy Katz, an Austrian boy from
the Omaha packing-houses, and he knew only an objectionable name for them, so he
offered no information. For a long time they thought the red clover blossoms
were wild flowers,—they were as big as wild roses. When they passed the first
alfalfa field, the whole train rang with laughter; alfalfa was one thing, they
believed, that had never been heard of outside their own prairie states.
All the way down, Company B had been finding the old things instead of the
new,—or, to their way of thinking, the new things instead of the old. The
thatched roofs they had so counted upon seeing were few and far between. But
American binders, of well-known makes, stood where the fields were beginning to
ripen,—and they were being oiled and put in order, not by "peasants," but by
wise-looking old farmers who seemed to know their business. Pear trees, trained
like vines against the wall, did not astonish them half so much as the sight of
the familiar cottonwood, growing everywhere. Claude thought he had never before
realized how beautiful this tree could be. In verdant little valleys, along the
clear rivers, the cottonwoods waved and rustled; and on the little islands, of
which there were so many in these rivers, they stood in pointed masses, seemed
to grip deep into the soil and to rest easy, as if they had been there for ever
and would be there for ever more. At home, all about Frankfort, the farmers were
cutting down their cottonwoods because they were "common," planting maples and
ash trees to struggle along in their stead. Never mind; the cottonwoods were
good enough for France, and they were good enough for him! He felt they were a
real bond between him and this people.
When B Company had first got their orders to go into a training camp in north
central France, all the men were disappointed. Troops much rawer than they were
being rushed to the front, so why fool around any longer? But now they were
reconciled to the delay. There seemed to be a good deal of France that wasn't
the war, and they wouldn't mind travelling about a little in a country like
this. Was the harvest always a month later than at home, as it seemed to be this
year? Why did the farmers have rows of trees growing along the edges of every
field—didn't they take the strength out of the soil? What did the farmers mean
by raising patches of mustard right along beside other crops? Didn't they know
that mustard got into wheat fields and strangled the grain?
The second night the boys were to spend in Rouen, and they would have the
following day to look about. Everybody knew what had happened at Rouen—if any
one didn't, his neighbours were only too eager to inform him! It had happened in
the market-place, and the market-place was what they were going to find.
Tomorrow, when it came, proved to be black and cold, a day of pouring rain.
As they filed through the narrow, crowded streets, that harsh Norman city
presented no very cheering aspect. They were glad, at last, to find the
waterside, to go out on the bridge and breathe the air in the great open space
over the river, away from the clatter of cart-wheels and the hard voices and
crafty faces of these townspeople, who seemed rough and unfriendly. From the
bridge they looked up at the white chalk hills, the tops a blur of intense green
under the low, lead-coloured sky. They watched the fleets of broad, deep-set
river barges, coming and going under their feet, with tilted smokestacks. Only a
little way up that river was Paris, the place where every doughboy meant to go;
and as they leaned on the rail and looked down at the slow-flowing water, each
one had in his mind a confused picture of what it would be like. The Seine, they
felt sure, must be very much wider there, and it was spanned by many bridges,
all longer than the bridge over the Missouri at Omaha. There would be spires and
golden domes past counting, all the buildings higher than anything in Chicago,
and brilliant—dazzlingly brilliant, nothing grey and shabby about it like this
old Rouen. They attributed to the city of their desire incalculable immensity,
bewildering vastness, Babylonian hugeness and heaviness—the only attributes
they had been taught to admire.
Late in the morning Claude found himself alone before the Church of St. Ouen.
He was hunting for the Cathedral, and this looked as if it might be the right
place. He shook the water from his raincoat and entered, removing his hat at the
door. The day, so dark without, was darker still within; . . . far away, a few
scattered candles, still little points of light . . . just before him, in the
grey twilight, slender white columns in long rows, like the stems of silver
poplars.
The entrance to the nave was closed by a cord, so he walked up the aisle on
the right, treading softly, passing chapels where solitary women knelt in the
light of a few tapers. Except for them, the church was empty . . . empty. His
own breathing was audible in this silence. He moved with caution lest he should
wake an echo.
When he reached the choir he turned, and saw, far behind him, the rose
window, with its purple heart. As he stood staring, hat in hand, as still as the
stone figures in the chapels, a great bell, up aloft, began to strike the hour
in its deep, melodious throat; eleven beats, measured and far apart, as rich as
the colours in the window, then silence . . . only in his memory the throbbing
of an undreamed-of quality of sound. The revelations of the glass and the bell
had come almost simultaneously, as if one produced the other; and both were
superlatives toward which his mind had always been groping,—or so it seemed to
him then.
In front of the choir the nave was open, with no rope to shut it off. Several
.straw chairs were huddled on a flag of the stone floor. After some hesitation
he took one, turned it round, and sat down facing the window. If some one should
come up to him and say anything, anything at all, he would rise and say,
"Pardon, Monsieur; je ne sais pas c'est defendu." He repeated this to himself to
be quite sure he had it ready.
On the train, coming down, he had talked to the boys about the bad reputation
Americans had acquired for slouching all over the place and butting in on
things, and had urged them to tread lightly, "But Lieutenant," the kid from
Pleasantville had piped up, "isn't this whole Expedition a butt-in? After all,
it ain't our war." Claude laughed, but he told him he meant to make an example
of the fellow who went to rough-housing.
He was well satisfied that he hadn't his restless companions on his mind now.
He could sit here quietly until noon, and hear the bell strike again. In the
meantime, he must try to think: This was, of course, Gothic architecture; he had
read more or less about that, and ought to be able to remember something. Gothic
. . . that was a mere word; to him it suggested something very peaked and
pointed,—sharp arches, steep roofs. It had nothing to do with these slim white
columns that rose so straight and far,—or with the window, burning up there in
its vault of gloom . . . .
While he was vainly trying to think about architecture, some recollection of
old astronomy lessons brushed across his brain,—something about stars whose
light travels through space for hundreds of years before it reaches the earth
and the human eye. The purple and crimson and peacock-green of this window had
been shining quite as long as that before it got to him . . . . He felt
distinctly that it went through him and farther still . . . as if his mother
were looking over his shoulder. He sat solemnly through the hour until twelve,
his elbows on his knees, his conical hat swinging between them in his hand,
looking up through the twilight with candid, thoughtful eyes.
When Claude joined his company at the station, they had the laugh on him.
They had found the Cathedral,—and a statue of Richard the Lion-hearted, over
the spot where the lion-heart itself was buried; "the identical organ," fat
Sergeant Hicks assured him. But they were all glad to leave Rouen.