It was high noon; the train had arrived at Angoulême, and was taking
aboard a crowd of convalescents. On the station platform, their faces
relentlessly illumined by the brilliant light, stood about thirty
soldiers; a few were leaning on canes, one was without a right arm, some
had still the pallor of the sick, others seemed able-bodied and hearty.
Every man wore on the bosom of his coat about half a dozen little
aluminum medals dangling from bows of tricolor ribbon. "Pour les
blessés, s'il vous plaît," cried a tall young woman in the costume and
blue cape of a Red-Cross nurse as she walked along the platform shaking
a tin collection box under the windows of the train.
To our compartment came three of the convalescents. One was a sturdy,
farmhand sort of fellow, with yellow hair and a yellow mustache--the
kind of man who might have been a Norman; he wore khaki puttees, brown
corduroy trousers, and a jacket which fitted his heavy, vigorous figure
rather snugly. Another was a little soul dressed in the "blue horizon"
from head to foot, a homely little soul with an egg-shaped head,
brown-green eyes, a retreating chin, and irregular teeth. The last,
wearing the old tenue, black jacket and red trousers, was a good-looking
fellow with rather handsome brown eyes. Comfortably stretched in a
corner, the Norman was deftly cutting slices of bread and meat which he
offered to his companions. Catching sight of my English paper, all three
stared at me with an interest and friendliness that was in psychological
contrast to the attitude of the obese civilian.
"Anglais?" asked the Norman.
The civilian watched for my answer.
"Non--Américain," I replied.
"Tiens," they said politely.
"Do you speak English?" asked the homely one.
"Yes," I answered.
The Norman fished a creased dirty letter and a slip of paper from his
wallet and handed them to me for inspection.
"I found them in a trench we shared with the English," he explained.
"These puttees are English; a soldier gave them to me." He exhibited his
legs with a good deal of satisfaction.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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