The Living Present | Page 6

bundles,
and her servants, also, do a great deal of the practical work.
It was a long drive through Paris and to the dépôts beyond. A year
before we should have been held up at the point of the bayonet every
few yards, but in 1916 we rolled on unhindered. Paris is no longer in
the War Zone, although as we passed the fortifications we saw men
standing beside the upward pointing guns, and I was told that this
vigilance does not relax day or night.
Later, I shall have much to say about the éclopés, but it is enough to
explain here that "éclopé," in the new adaptation of the word, stands for
a man who is not wounded, or ill enough for a military hospital, but for
whom a brief rest in comfortable quarters is imperative. The stations
provided for them, principally through the instrumentality of another
remarkable Frenchwoman, Mlle. Javal, now number about one hundred
and thirty, and are either behind the lines or in the neighborhood of
Paris or other large cities. The one we visited, Le Bourget, is among the
largest and most important, and the Commandant, M. de L'Horme, is as
interested as a father in his children. The yard when we arrived was full
of soldiers, some about to march out and entrain for the front, others
still loafing, and M. de L'Horme seemed to know each by name.
The comfort packages are always given to the men returning to their
regiments on that particular day. They are piled high on a long table at
one side of the barrack yard, and behind it on the day of my visit stood
Madame Balli, Mrs. Allen, Mr. Holman-Black and myself, and we
handed out packages with a "Bonne chance" as the men filed by. Some
were sullen and unresponsive, but many more looked as pleased as
children and no doubt were as excited over their "grabs," which they

were not to open until in the train. They would face death on the
morrow, but for the moment at least they were personal and titillated.
Close by was a small munition factory, and a large loft had been turned
into a rest-room for such of the éclopés as it was thought advisable to
put to bed for a few days under medical supervision. To each of these
we gave several of the black cigarettes dear to the tobacco-proof heart
of the Frenchman, a piece of soap, three picture post-cards, and
chocolate. I think they were as glad of the visits as of the presents, for
most of them were too far from home to receive any personal attention
from family or friends. The beds looked comfortable and all the
windows were open.
From there we went to the Dépôt des Isolés, an immense enclosure
where men from shattered regiments are sent for a day or two until they
can be returned to the front to fill gaps in other regiments. Nowhere,
not even in the War Zone, did war show to me a grimmer face than
here. As these men are in good health and tarry barely forty-eight hours,
little is done for their comfort. Soldiers in good condition are not
encouraged to expect comforts in war time, and no doubt the discipline
is good for them--although, heaven knows, the French as a race know
little about comfort at any time.
There were cots in some of the barracks, but there were also large
spaces covered with straw, and here men had flung themselves down as
they entered, without unstrapping the heavy loads they carried on their
backs. They were sleeping soundly. Every bed was occupied by a
sprawling figure in his stained, faded, muddy uniform. I saw one
superb and turbaned Algerian sitting upright in an attitude of extreme
dignity, and as oblivious to war and angels of mercy as a dead man in
the trenches.
Two English girls, the Miss Gracies, had opened a cantine at this dépôt.
Women have these cantines in all the éclopé and isolé stations where
permission of the War Office can be obtained, and not only give freely
of hot coffee and cocoa, bread, cakes and lemonade, to those weary
men as they come in, but also have made their little sheds look gaily
hospitable with flags and pictures. The Miss Gracies had even induced

some one to build an open air theater in the great barrack yard where
the men could amuse themselves and one another if they felt inclined.
A more practical gift by Mrs. Allen was a bath house in which were six
showers and soap and towels.
It was a dirty yard we stood in this time, handing out gifts, and when I
saw Mrs. Allen buying a whole wheelbarrow-load of golden-looking
doughnuts, brought by a