The Uncensored Letters of a Canteen GirlMorse, Katharine Duncan
History
The Uncensored Letters of a Canteen Girl
Morse, Katharine Duncan
World War, 1914-1918 -- Personal narratives
We went back through the garden and here Monsieur must gather a bouquet
for me. Around and about the garden he hurried, going to every bush in
turn, putting his poor dim eyes down into the very leaves of each,
searching for just what he wanted; and finally it was done, pink and
white roses, red geraniums, camomile and white pinks, made up in a
little stiff bunch and tied with a bit of scarlet string. Then he must
present it with a deep bow and a gallant speech “from an old Frenchman
to _une jolie Américaine_”, while all the rest, including the ancient
maid-servant who had just returned from the fields with an apron full of
clover for the rabbits, stood about and applauded and cried “Vive la
France!” and then “Vive l’ Amérique!” in a quite truly stage manner.
We left the little Y. in charge of a boy from the Medical Corps. He has
little to do except dispense pills to the French people, so he was
willing to look after it.
This morning word came in from Sauvoy that the Germans bombed it last
night. Luckily the bombs, evidently aimed at the railroad, fell just
outside the village and did no harm; but poor old Monsieur must have
gotten a bad fright.
Abainville, August 1.
Abainville’s future is at last assured. Work upon the hut has been
resumed. The buzz of barracks-building fills all the place, the railroad
yards gradually but relentlessly encroach; little by little they are
ruining the most beautiful poppy field in all the world.
Meanwhile our family too has grown. A few days ago three new companies
of engineers arrived in town. These are draft troops from Texas and
Oklahoma, in camp for only a few weeks in the States, shipped here
directly from the base port, and so green to France that they don’t even
know what _oui oui_ means. On the trip here one of these boys, they
tell, after gazing out the door of his “side-door pullman” in silence
half the morning, remarked disgustedly;
“This is a hell of a country!”
“What’s the matter?”
“Why all the stations have got the same name!”
“The hell they have! What’s the name?”
“_Sortie!_”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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