One of Ours
Book V: "Bidding the Eagles of the West Fly On"
Chapter XII
A rainy autumn night; Papa Joubert sat reading his paper. He heard a heavy
pounding on his garden gate. Kicking off his slippers, he put on the wooden
sabots he kept for mud, shuffled across the dripping garden, and opened the door
into the dark street. Two tall figures with rifles and kits confronted him. In a
moment he began embracing them, calling to his wife:
"Nom de diable, Maman, c'est David, David et Claude, tous les deux!"
Sorry-looking soldiers they appeared when they stood in the candlelight,
plastered with clay, their metal hats shining like copper bowls, their clothes
dripping pools of water upon the flags of the kitchen floor. Mme. Joubert kissed
their wet cheeks, and Monsieur, now that he could see them, embraced them again.
Whence had they come, and how had it fared with them, up there? Very well, as
anybody could see. What did they want first,—supper, perhaps? Their room was
always ready for them; and the clothes they had left were in the big chest.
David explained that their shirts had not once been dry for four days; and
what they most desired was to be dry and to be clean. Old Martha, already in
bed, was routed out to heat water. M. Joubert carried the big washtub upstairs.
Tomorrow for conversation, he said; tonight for repose. The boys followed him
and began to peel off their wet uniforms, leaving them in two sodden piles on
the floor. There was one bath for both, and they threw up a coin to decide which
should get into the warm water first. M. Joubert, seeing Claude's fat ankle
strapped up in adhesive bandages, began to chuckle. "Oh, I see the Boche made
you dance up there!"
When they were clad in clean pyjamas out of the chest, Papa Joubert carried
their shirts and socks down for Martha to wash. He returned with the big meat
platter, on which was an omelette made of twelve eggs and stuffed with bacon and
fried potatoes. Mme. Joubert brought the three-story earthen coffee-pot to the
door and called, "Bon appetit!" The host poured the coffee and cut up the loaf
with his clasp knife. He sat down to watch them eat. How had they found things
up there, anyway? The Boches polite and agreeable as usual? Finally, when there
was not a crumb of anything left, he poured for each a little glass of brandy,
"pour cider la digestion," and wished them good-night. He took the candle with
him.
Perfect bliss, Claude reflected, as the chill of the sheets grew warm around
his body, and he sniffed in the pillow the old smell of lavender. To be so warm,
so dry, so clean, so beloved! The journey down, reviewed from here, seemed
beautiful. As soon as they had got out of the region of martyred trees, they
found the land of France turning gold. All along the river valleys the poplars
and cottonwoods had changed from green to yellow,—evenly coloured, looking like
candle flames in the mist and rain. Across the fields, along the horizon they
ran, like torches passed from hand to hand, and all the willows by the little
streams had become silver. The vineyards were green still, thickly spotted with
curly, blood-red branches. It all flashed back beside his pillow in the dark:
this beautiful land, this beautiful people, this beautiful omelette; gold
poplars, blue-green vineyards, wet, scarlet vine leaves, rain dripping into the
court, fragrant darkness . . . sleep, stronger than all.